Elias did not speak to her that day.
He finished his coffee slowly, watching the steam rise and vanish, as if it carried something fragile with it. When he finally stood, he kept his movements measured, careful not to disturb the quiet that had settled between them like an unspoken agreement.
As he passed her table, he felt the urge—to say something ordinary, harmless. *The rain looks like it plans to stay.* Anything that did not ask for more than either of them was ready to give.
He said nothing.
Outside, Lisbon breathed around him. The rain had softened into a mist, the city's colors deepened by damp stone and fading light. Elias walked without direction, hands in his coat pockets, mind unsettled in a way he had learned to recognize and distrust.
He had been alone long enough to mistake it for peace.
Amara remained seated long after he left.
She watched his reflection disappear from the glass, her fingers tightening slightly around the warm cup. She hadn't expected to notice him—men had learned how to look confident, loud, certain of their place in the world. He had been none of those things.
That was what stayed with her.
There was something unfinished about him. A quiet restraint, as if he were holding himself together with deliberate care. She knew the feeling. Had lived inside it for years.
When she finally stood, the café felt different—emptier, though nothing had changed. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and stepped back into the street, the air cool against her skin.
She told herself it had been nothing.
She had learned how dangerous *nothing* could be.
They met again three days later.
Elias arrived at the café earlier than usual, irritated with himself for noticing the absence of someone he did not know. He chose his seat anyway, ordered coffee he did not taste, and opened his notebook with an intention that felt more like hope.
The bell above the door rang.
He did not look up immediately. He did not need to.
Amara paused just inside the entrance, rain clinging to the hem of her coat. This time, she searched the room more carefully. When she found him, something subtle shifted in her expression—not surprise, but recognition.
As if she had expected this.
She took the seat across from him again.
"Do you mind?" she asked, gesturing lightly to the empty chair, though there were others available.
He shook his head. "No."
The word sounded unfamiliar in his voice. He cleared his throat. "I mean—no, I don't mind."
She smiled then. It was brief, restrained, but real. "Thank you."
Silence followed, not awkward, but deliberate. Outside, a tram rattled past, its sound folding into the low murmur of the café.
"I'm Amara," she said finally.
"Elias."
He watched her absorb his name, as if deciding what it meant.
"You come here often," she said, not as an accusation, but an observation.
He nodded. "It helps me think."
"Does it work?"
He hesitated. Honesty arrived before caution could stop it. "Not lately."
Her eyes softened. "I understand that."
Something opened in him then—not enough to be dangerous, but enough to be noticed.
They spoke of small things after that. The weather. The way Lisbon felt older at night. How certain streets seemed to remember the people who walked them.
They avoided the deeper questions instinctively, like two people walking the edge of water, aware of how easily it could pull them under.
When she stood to leave, Elias felt the familiar tightening in his chest—the instinct to retreat before expectation could take root.
"I'll see you around," she said.
He nodded. "I hope so."
The words surprised them both.
As she walked away, Elias returned to his notebook. This time, the page did not feel empty.
He wrote one sentence.
Some connections do not announce themselves. They wait.
He closed the notebook gently, as if afraid to disturb what had begun.