If anyone had asked, neither of them would've said anything had changed.
They still met at the same table. Still arrived without texting ahead. Still ordered the same drinks, sat the same way, left at roughly the same time. Nothing obvious. Nothing dramatic.
But something had shifted.
It started with complaints.
Not the casual kind—the kind you toss out and forget—but the tired ones. The kind that sat heavier in the air after being spoken, like they'd waited a long time to be let out.
Kirsch complained about the way machines never broke cleanly. About how problems stacked on top of problems until no one remembered what the original issue even was. About supervisors who spoke in polished sentences that meant nothing.
"They don't want solutions," he said one night, rubbing his eyes. "They want reassurance. They want to hear that everything's under control, even when it isn't."
Lita listened, chin resting on her hand.
"That's because panic makes people feel responsible," she said. "And responsibility is expensive."
He looked at her, surprised. "You sound like you've dealt with that."
She shrugged. "Everyone has, in one way or another."
Her complaints followed soon after. About schedules that shifted without warning. About expectations that kept growing but never clarified. About how exhaustion was treated like a personal failure instead of a natural consequence.
"I hate when people ask if I'm okay," she said once. "Not because I'm not. But because they don't want the real answer."
Kirsch nodded immediately. "They want the version that doesn't inconvenience them."
"Exactly."
Their bitterness matched too easily.
They never raised their voices. Never ranted. Their frustrations were delivered calmly, almost politely, like facts that had been proven too many times to argue with.
"I don't think people realize how much effort it takes just to show up," Kirsch said one night. "They think if you're there, you're fine."
"And if you're not," Lita added, "you're expected to fix it quietly."
They shared exhaustion the way other people shared jokes.
Kirsch noticed how Lita's shoulders relaxed when she spoke freely. How her sentences flowed smoother when she didn't feel the need to edit herself. He wondered if she noticed the same in him—the way his posture softened, the way his words came easier.
There was no flirting. No teasing. No lingering looks.
Just relief.
One night, Lita brought up something small.
"I forgot my keys today," she said, stirring her tea.
Kirsch raised an eyebrow. "That sounds… stressful."
"It was," she said. "But not because of the inconvenience. It was because of the looks."
"The looks?"
"The looks that say, 'How could you mess up something so simple?'" She smiled thinly. "Like forgetting means you're careless, not human."
Kirsch laughed quietly. "I once locked myself out of my apartment three times in one week."
"Three?"
"Different reasons each time," he said defensively.
She smiled at that. A real one.
"See," she said. "Night people get it."
They talked about sleep—not how much they got, but how strange it felt. How rest never seemed to restore anything, only paused the damage.
"I wake up tired," Lita admitted. "Not physically. Just… pre-exhausted."
Kirsch nodded. "Like your body already knows what the day's going to take from you."
They talked about food, too. Not favorites or cravings, but convenience meals. Things eaten standing up. Things chosen because they required the least thought.
"Sometimes I don't even taste it," Kirsch said.
"That's fine," Lita replied. "Daytime food is for function. Night food is for comfort."
She pushed her plate toward him once without comment. He took a bite without asking. It felt normal. Comfortable. Unremarkable in the best way.
They never talked about love.
They never talked about relationships, past or present. The topic hovered at the edges sometimes, hinted at through phrasing or silence, but neither of them pulled it into the light.
Labels belonged to the daytime. Night didn't need them.
Instead, they talked about coping.
"I don't think I'm broken," Lita said one night. "I think I'm just… worn."
Kirsch leaned back, considering. "People treat wear like damage. But wear just means something's been used."
She looked at him then, eyes sharp but soft. "You say that like it matters."
"It does," he said. "At least to me."
Something settled between them after that.
Not attraction. Not romance.
Trust.
They began to anticipate each other's moods. Kirsch could tell when Lita had had a particularly draining night by the way she wrapped her hands around her cup. Lita could tell when Kirsch was mentally elsewhere by how long he stirred his coffee.
When one of them was quiet, the other didn't fill the space unnecessarily.
One night, Kirsch showed up later than usual.
Lita didn't comment. She just slid his cup closer when it arrived.
"Bad shift?" she asked.
"Long one," he replied.
"That's worse."
He smiled faintly. "It always is."
They sat like that for a while. No conversation. Just shared presence.
Kirsch realized something uncomfortable then: he felt seen here in a way he didn't elsewhere. Not observed. Not evaluated.
Acknowledged.
Lita leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "Do you ever feel like the world is too loud about things that don't matter," she said, "and completely silent about the ones that do?"
"All the time," Kirsch replied.
"I think that's why I like nights," she continued. "The important things don't have to compete."
"What's important to you?" Kirsch asked.
She hesitated.
"This," she said finally, gesturing vaguely between them. "Not because it's special. But because it's honest."
Kirsch swallowed.
"Yeah," he said. "I feel that."
There was no dramatic realization. No sudden awareness of feelings.
Just a quiet understanding that whatever this was, it mattered more than either of them wanted to admit.
When Lita stood to leave that night, she paused longer than usual.
"I don't think I'd talk like this during the day," she said.
Kirsch shook his head. "I don't think I could."
She smiled, tired but genuine. "Good thing nights exist, then."
He watched her go, feeling the familiar ache settle in his chest—not longing, not desire, but something gentler and more dangerous.
Dependence.
By the time Kirsch left the café, the sky was already beginning to pale.
Nothing important had happened.
Everything honest had been said.
And neither of them realized yet how hard it would be to let go of that.