The second cup of coffee was a mistake.
Ava realized this as she sat across from Liam, fingers wrapped too tightly around the ceramic mug, heart tapping an uneven rhythm against her ribs. Caffeine had a way of sharpening things—thoughts, sounds, feelings—and right now, she was aware of everything.
The hum of the espresso machine.The rain tapping faintly against the window again.The way Liam's sleeve was pushed up just enough to reveal a thin scar along his wrist.
She wondered, briefly, where it came from.
"So," Liam said, clearing his throat, "you come here often?"
The question sounded rehearsed the moment it left his mouth. He winced slightly, then laughed under his breath. "Sorry. That sounded like a bad line."
Ava smiled, genuinely this time. "It's okay. I do, actually. Or I used to. Studio got busy."
"Architecture, right?" he asked.
Her eyebrows lifted. "How did you—"
"You were carrying a sketchbook," he said, gesturing lightly. "And you look like someone who stares at buildings instead of people."
She laughed, surprised by the accuracy. "Guilty."
He leaned back in his chair, relief softening his posture. "I do the opposite. I stare at people and pretend I understand buildings."
"What do you do?"
"English major," he said. "Senior year. Which sounds impressive until you realize it comes with a part-time job and no clear future."
Ava nodded slowly. "I know that feeling."
They fell quiet again, but this silence felt different. It wasn't empty. It was the kind that allowed thoughts to surface without fear of interruption.
Liam watched her over the rim of his cup. The way she listened—not just to him, but to the space between his words—made him feel seen in a way that unsettled him.
"You were drawing this morning," he said suddenly.
She blinked. "How did you know?"
He shrugged. "Ink on your fingers."
Ava glanced down, then sighed softly. "Habit."
"Can I see?"
The question landed gently, but it carried weight. Her sketchbook wasn't just paper and graphite—it was a map of her thoughts, the things she couldn't explain to her parents, her professors, or herself.
She hesitated.
Then she slid it across the table.
Liam opened it carefully, as if afraid the pages might break. He flipped slowly, eyes widening with each turn—buildings that felt alive, streets that curved like they had memories, shadows that suggested people without trapping them in detail.
Then he stopped.
The streetlight.
The rain.
The figure beneath it.
He looked up. "Is this…?"
Ava felt heat rush to her face. "I didn't draw your face," she said quickly. "Just—just the feeling."
Liam smiled, soft and genuine. "You captured it."
She exhaled, tension easing. "You write, don't you?"
He stiffened slightly. "What makes you say that?"
She nodded toward the counter. "Your notebook. Yesterday."
He followed her gaze, then laughed quietly. "I forgot that was out."
"Poetry?" she asked.
"Sometimes."
"Can I read?"
He hesitated now, roles reversed. Words were his shelter, his hiding place. Letting someone read them felt like letting them see his ribs.
Still, he reached into his bag and pulled out the notebook.
"Be gentle," he said.
Ava opened it slowly.
The handwriting was neat but uneven, like it had been written in moments of urgency. She read silently, eyes tracing lines that felt intimate without being intrusive.
Some people arrive like weather,changing the temperature of a roomwithout ever touching a thing.
Her breath caught.
"This is beautiful," she said.
Liam looked away, embarrassed. "It's unfinished."
"So are most good things," she replied.
Something shifted between them then—subtle, undeniable. Not a spark. A thread.
They talked longer than they meant to. About classes, favorite streets, the strange comfort of rainy nights. Liam told her about growing up in a small town where the sky felt too big. Ava told him about moving cities every few years, never staying long enough to feel rooted.
"Do you ever feel like you're standing in the middle of something," Ava asked quietly, "and you don't know which direction you're supposed to go?"
"All the time," Liam said.
Outside, the rain stopped.
Sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling gold across the street. The city looked different now—brighter, sharper, louder.
Ava checked the time and groaned softly. "I'm late."
"For class?"
"For life," she said, smiling ruefully.
Liam stood with her, walking her to the door. The space between them felt smaller now, charged with something neither wanted to name too soon.
"Will I see you again?" he asked.
She met his eyes. "I hope so."
They stepped outside together.
The street was drying, reflections fading, but the feeling lingered.
As they parted ways, Liam realized something quietly terrifying and beautiful:
The city hadn't felt this alive in a long time.
And it was because of her.