[His POV]
I wipe down the counter slower than usual.
It's the kind of lull where you can hear the café breathing. The ceiling fan hums with a lazy rhythm. Someone's soft indie playlist loops through the speakers. The customer at table four is asleep over their laptop again.
It's quiet. But not peaceful.
My shift started thirty minutes ago, and I've already looked at the door six times.
I don't know what I'm expecting.
No—that's a lie.
I'm expecting her. Or maybe just hoping for her.
It's not like we exchanged numbers or made plans beyond the bus. Our whole relationship—if you could even call it that—lives in the space between stops and neon reflections. Words passed like shared umbrellas. Delicate. Temporary.
But it still lingers.
Last night, she listened to my writing. Not out of pity, not out of politeness. She actually listened.
And she remembered Chapter 12.
People don't remember things like that unless they care.
"Hey." Mira nudges my arm. "You keep staring at the door like you owe someone money."
I blink. "What?"
"Nothing," she says, smirking. "Just don't burn the espresso this time."
I nod, half-listening, reaching for the cloth again.
Then the bell above the door rings.
I don't look up right away.
But I feel it.
Like the air in the room shifted a little. Like something threaded itself into the quiet.
I glance toward the entrance.
It's her.
Not headphones-on-the-bus her.
Not lost-in-a-book her.
Just… her. Standing there, taking it all in—café lights, low chatter, the soft hum of coffee beans being ground behind the bar.
She's wearing a charcoal coat and a black knit scarf. Her obsidian eyes scan the menu like she's actually reading it, but I know she's buying time.
I dry my hands and step up to the register.
"Hey," I say.
She looks up.
And smiles.
It's small. Not wide or dramatic. But it's real. The kind of smile you only give when the person in front of you already feels a little familiar.
"Hi," she says. "I didn't know you worked here."
"I didn't know you existed off the bus," I reply, then cringe a little. "That sounded better in my head."
She laughs—quiet and quick. "No, I get it."
Her eyes flicker across the menu again. "What's good?"
"Depends. You want bitter or sweet?"
"Sweet."
I nod. "Caramel hazelnut latte. No regrets."
She hesitates, then taps her phone against the counter for payment. "One no-regrets latte, then."
I move through the motions—grinding beans, pouring milk, layering syrup. But my mind isn't on autopilot. It's too busy registering details.
She's prettier in this light. Not in the polished, romantic-novel-cover way. But in the "someone who stays up too late thinking about made-up people" kind of way. She belongs in the corner of a bookstore, or between the pages of the kind of novel you read on rainy afternoons.
I place the drink on the counter. "Here you go."
She accepts it with both hands. "Thank you."
Another pause. We're good at those.
I don't want her to leave just yet.
"You can sit," I offer, motioning to the window seat near the end. "It's quieter there."
She nods and slips away.
And just like that, she's sitting in my favorite spot.
Funny how that doesn't bother me.
⸻
[Her POV]
I wasn't supposed to come in.
I walked past twice. Just looked at the sign. The lights. The smudge of rain on the window. I told myself it was too weird. Too soon. Too something.
But then I thought about how he read to me.
How his voice dipped a little on the important lines, like he didn't want to ruin them by rushing.
And suddenly, standing outside the café felt more ridiculous than walking in.
So I did.
And now I'm here, latte warming my hands, trying not to stare at him behind the counter like a character from one of my own chapters.
He's different here.
More focused. More in place. Like this is where he's supposed to be when he's not scribbling half-thoughts in a notebook on public transportation.
I sip the drink. It's sweeter than I expected.
Exactly what I needed.
I glance around—dim lighting, mismatched chairs, a bookshelf with cracked spines and forgotten poetry anthologies. This place feels lived in. Like a space where people linger because they don't want to be anywhere else yet.
He fits into that picture too well.
And yet, there's something about the way he sneaks glances toward my table when he thinks I'm not looking. Like he's still not sure if I'm real.
I take out my phone, half-heartedly pretending to check messages, then open a new note.
Chapter 114 – Setting: Café, rain-soaked glass, a boy who offers sweetness without asking why you need it.
I don't write more.
I just watch him move through the space.
Every so often, he catches me watching.
But neither of us looks away.
Not this time.