Elara does not think of the gathering at the café as a beginning.
Beginnings announce themselves. They come with clarity, with the sense that something has been crossed and cannot be uncrossed. This, instead, feels like a continuation of something that has already been moving quietly beneath the surface of her life.
Still, the days that follow do not return to what they were.
At work, the presence of others settles into something familiar faster than she expects. Lunch is no longer a solitary decision made at the last minute. There are messages now—short, practical, almost incidental.
Are you heading down yet?
Saved you a seat.
Coffee run—want anything?
Elara responds when she can. Joins when it makes sense. She does not force herself into anything she isn't ready for, but she notices that she no longer feels like she's intruding when she arrives.
Jonah teases her lightly about becoming "social." Mira begins stopping by her office instead of emailing. Selene forwards her articles with a brief, Thought you'd like this.
It is not overwhelming.
That is what makes it sustainable.
Aiden remains… adjacent.
He does not insert himself into the group dynamic, but he does not remove himself from it either. When they cross paths, conversation flows easily. When they don't, there is no awkward accounting later.
On Tuesday evening, Elara finds herself at the café alone again, tucked into her usual corner, rain tapping against the windows in thin, uneven lines.
She is halfway through a case file she brought home when someone stops beside her table.
"Is this seat taken?"
She looks up to see a man she does not recognize—mid-thirties, neat suit, confident smile. He gestures to the chair across from her.
"Yes," she says politely. "Actually, it is."
He blinks, surprised. "Oh. Sorry."
"No problem."
He hesitates, as if considering whether to try again, then nods and moves on.
The exchange is brief, forgettable.
Except Aiden has been watching.
He doesn't say anything when he joins her a few minutes later, setting his coffee down across from her. They sit in companionable silence for a while before he speaks.
"You didn't owe him an explanation," he says.
"I didn't give one."
Aiden smiles faintly. "Exactly."
She studies him. "You noticed."
"I notice patterns."
"Is that so?"
"Yes," he says easily. "You're polite, but firm. You don't invite negotiation when you've already decided."
Elara looks back at her papers, pretending to reread a paragraph she already knows by heart. "That's a generous interpretation."
"It's accurate."
Something about the certainty in his tone unsettles her—not because it feels invasive, but because it feels earned.
They talk about work after that. About nothing personal. About everything that skirts around it.
When Aiden leaves, Elara stays longer than she intended, staring at her reflection in the darkened window.
She wonders—not for the first time—what it would be like to want something without immediately measuring its cost.
The question follows her home.
Midweek brings disruption.
It arrives in the form of a phone call during lunch, her screen lighting up with a name she hasn't seen in months.
Marcus.
She lets it ring once. Twice.
Then she answers.
"Elara," he says, voice warm, familiar. "It's been a while."
"Yes," she agrees.
"I was in the area and thought of you," he continues, smoothly. "I was hoping we could catch up."
She closes her eyes briefly.
Marcus has always known how to phrase things so they sound incidental when they are anything but.
"I'm busy," she says.
"Tonight?" he asks, already pushing.
"No," she says, firmer this time. "In general."
There is a pause on the line, longer than necessary.
"I didn't realize we were on those terms," he says lightly.
"We're on honest ones," Elara replies.
She hangs up before he can respond.
Her hands are steady when she sets the phone down. Her breath is not.
Later that evening, she finds herself walking faster than usual, heading toward the café with purpose she does not examine too closely.
Aiden is already there.
He looks up when she enters, concern flickering briefly across his face before settling into neutrality.
"You okay?" he asks.
She nods, then shakes her head. "I don't know."
He doesn't ask her to explain.
They sit.
The comfort of his presence feels different tonight—not gentle, but grounding. She tells him about the call in fragments, without names, without context.
He listens.
When she finishes, he says only, "You don't owe anyone access to you."
The words land quietly.
Elara realizes, then, that something has changed—not between them, but within her.
For the first time, wanting does not feel like a weakness.
It feels like information.
By the end of the week, the group meets again—this time intentionally.
Plans are made. Times are agreed upon. It is no longer coincidence.
They sit together, talk, laugh. Aiden sits slightly apart, but close enough that Elara is always aware of him.
At one point, their knees brush beneath the table.
Neither of them moves away.
The contact is brief. Incidental.
And yet.
Elara goes home that night with the unmistakable understanding that her life is no longer simply happening around her.
She is standing inside it now.
And something—someone—is beginning to ask to be chosen.