Elara tells herself she's imagining the weight of the moment.
That this is what happens when a long day finally loosens its hold—your mind reaches for meaning where there is none. She takes another sip of her coffee, focusing on the familiar bitterness, the warmth settling into her chest. Outside, a car honks impatiently. Someone laughs too loudly as they pass the window.
Normal things. Ordinary things.
The man steps up to the counter.
She doesn't look at him directly this time, but she registers the sound of his voice when he orders—low, calm, unhurried. He doesn't over-explain, doesn't ask unnecessary questions. The barista nods, clearly comfortable with the exchange.
"Elara?" the barista calls moments later, setting her cup down again after a refill she hadn't asked for.
"Thank you," she says automatically.
When she looks up, she finds him watching—not her exactly, but the interaction. The ease of it. The way she hadn't needed to say anything at all.
Their eyes meet again.
This time, he doesn't look away immediately.
It's subtle. The briefest hesitation. But it's enough to unsettle her in a way she doesn't understand. There's no scrutiny in his gaze. No expectation. Just awareness, as if he's noticed something without deciding what to do with it yet.
He nods once, a small acknowledgment, then turns to collect his drink.
Elara's fingers tighten slightly around her cup.
She tells herself it's nothing.
He chooses a seat—not beside her, not across from her, but close enough that she's aware of him when she shifts in her chair. She opens her book again, eyes moving across the page without absorbing the words. Every few seconds, her attention drifts, drawn not to him directly, but to the space he occupies.
He doesn't check his phone. Doesn't fidget. Just sits, one hand around his cup, gaze occasionally lifting toward the window as if he's watching the evening settle into place.
The quiet stretches.
At some point, Elara realizes she's been holding her breath.
She exhales slowly and closes her book, slipping it back into her bag. She's stayed longer than usual tonight, though she can't say why. When she stands, the chair legs scrape softly against the floor.
The sound draws his attention.
He looks up as she steps past his table, and for a moment, they're close enough that she can see the faint crease between his brows, the hint of something thoughtful resting there.
"Sorry," he says instinctively, shifting his chair slightly to give her room.
"It's okay," she replies.
Their voices overlap just enough to feel awkward. Real.
She moves toward the door, heart beating faster than the situation warrants. Her hand reaches for the handle—
"Hey."
She pauses.
It's not loud. Not demanding. Just enough to stop her without cornering her.
She turns.
"Yes?"
He hesitates, clearly reconsidering whatever impulse made him speak. For a second, she thinks he might apologize and let her go.
Instead, he says, "You come here a lot."
It isn't a question.
She blinks, surprised. "I do."
"I thought so." A faint smile curves at the edge of his mouth—not practiced, not performative. "They already knew what you wanted."
"Yes," she says again, unsure why her voice feels steadier than she does. "They do."
There's a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just open.
"I'm Aiden," he says finally.
"Elara."
The way he repeats her name—carefully, like he wants to get it right—sends a strange, quiet awareness through her chest.
"Well," he says, stepping back slightly, as if giving her the space to leave if she wants to. "Have a good night, Elara."
"You too," she replies.
She steps outside before she can think too hard about it.
The evening air is cooler than she expected. She walks a full block before realizing she's smiling.
It fades quickly, replaced by something else—something harder to define.
Why had that moment mattered?
Why did it feel like more than coincidence?
She reaches her apartment, unlocks the door, steps inside—and then pauses, hand still resting on the handle.
For the first time in a long while, her routine doesn't feel complete.
And that unsettles her far more than she wants to admit.