Chapter 8
The café smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso.
It was early again—barely nine—but Lena had already been on her feet for two hours, prepping tables, wiping windows, brewing pots of coffee no one would appreciate. She'd burned her thumb on the espresso machine. The sleeve of her sweater was damp with milk foam.
And yet…
She felt lighter.
Not happy. Not suddenly cured of the exhaustion that clung to her bones.
But lighter.
The kind of lighter that comes when someone sees you across a table and doesn't ask you to be anything but human.
Sophia hadn't touched her. Hadn't tried to cross boundaries. She hadn't even looked at Lena like she was fragile or breakable. Just… there.
And that, for some reason, had made all the difference.
⸻
Lena leaned against the back door of the café on her short break, a paper cup warming her hands, her phone buzzing gently in her apron pocket.
It was a message from Sophia.
Not formal. Not demanding. Just…
You looked tired today. I hope you'll rest when your shift ends. Let me know if you want dinner. No pressure. Just warmth.
Lena stared at the screen.
She didn't know what this was yet.
Not a relationship. Not even a friendship, maybe.
It was… something. Like a window she hadn't realized had been shut for years was quietly starting to open.
⸻
At home that evening, Lena sat on the edge of the mattress. The room was dim, her mother already snoring softly, the heater groaning with effort.
Lena held her phone in both hands like it might slip through her fingers if she wasn't careful.
She thought about what dinner would mean.
About what showing up meant.
Was she ready?
Would she ever be?
She typed slowly.
One dinner. Nothing fancy. I get off at 7.
Then hit send before she could second-guess it.
⸻
Later that night
Sophia chose the quietest corner of the restaurant—warm lighting, nothing extravagant. No paparazzi. No loud jazz or fake laughter. Just peace.
When Lena walked in, shoulders tense, fingers wrapped tight around her coat sleeve, Sophia stood without thinking.
"You came," she said again, and Lena smiled faintly.
"Seems to be becoming a habit."
They sat.
This time, no nerves. Just a kind of shared stillness. Like a hush before something soft.
⸻
Lena didn't talk much that night. She listened.
Listened to Sophia talk about boarding schools and quiet birthdays. About deals struck in glass towers and dinners eaten alone under chandeliers. It sounded like success wrapped in emptiness.
"I never learned how to be still," Sophia said, picking at her food. "Until you."
Lena looked up.
"I didn't do anything."
"You didn't leave. That's something."
It landed like truth in the center of Lena's chest.
They finished their meal in a silence that felt sacred, not awkward.
And as they stood outside afterward, breath fogging in the cold, Sophia didn't lean in. She didn't reach out. She just asked gently, "Can I walk you home?"
Lena hesitated.
Then nodded.
She didn't know what this was. Still didn't.
But whatever it was, it felt real.
And real was more than she'd had in a long time.
The café smelled like cinnamon and burnt espresso.
It was early again—barely nine—but Lena had already been on her feet for two hours, prepping tables, wiping windows, brewing pots of coffee no one would appreciate. She'd burned her thumb on the espresso machine. The sleeve of her sweater was damp with milk foam.
And yet…
She felt lighter.
Not happy. Not suddenly cured of the exhaustion that clung to her bones.
But lighter.
The kind of lighter that comes when someone sees you across a table and doesn't ask you to be anything but human.
Sophia hadn't touched her. Hadn't tried to cross boundaries. She hadn't even looked at Lena like she was fragile or breakable. Just… there.
And that, for some reason, had made all the difference.
⸻
Lena leaned against the back door of the café on her short break, a paper cup warming her hands, her phone buzzing gently in her apron pocket.
It was a message from Sophia.
Not formal. Not demanding. Just…
You looked tired today. I hope you'll rest when your shift ends. Let me know if you want dinner. No pressure. Just warmth.
Lena stared at the screen.
She didn't know what this was yet.
Not a relationship. Not even a friendship, maybe.
It was… something. Like a window she hadn't realized had been shut for years was quietly starting to open.
⸻
At home that evening, Lena sat on the edge of the mattress. The room was dim, her mother already snoring softly, the heater groaning with effort.
Lena held her phone in both hands like it might slip through her fingers if she wasn't careful.
She thought about what dinner would mean.
About what showing up meant.
Was she ready?
Would she ever be?
She typed slowly.
One dinner. Nothing fancy. I get off at 7.
Then hit send before she could second-guess it.
⸻
Later that night
Sophia chose the quietest corner of the restaurant—warm lighting, nothing extravagant. No paparazzi. No loud jazz or fake laughter. Just peace.
When Lena walked in, shoulders tense, fingers wrapped tight around her coat sleeve, Sophia stood without thinking.
"You came," she said again, and Lena smiled faintly.
"Seems to be becoming a habit."
They sat.
This time, no nerves. Just a kind of shared stillness. Like a hush before something soft.
⸻
Lena didn't talk much that night. She listened.
Listened to Sophia talk about boarding schools and quiet birthdays. About deals struck in glass towers and dinners eaten alone under chandeliers. It sounded like success wrapped in emptiness.
"I never learned how to be still," Sophia said, picking at her food. "Until you."
Lena looked up.
"I didn't do anything."
"You didn't leave. That's something."
It landed like truth in the center of Lena's chest.
They finished their meal in a silence that felt sacred, not awkward.
And as they stood outside afterward, breath fogging in the cold, Sophia didn't lean in. She didn't reach out. She just asked gently, "Can I walk you home?"
Lena hesitated.
Then nodded.
She didn't know what this was. Still didn't.
But whatever it was, it felt real.
And real was more than she'd had in a long time.