The café had closed hours ago, but the lights were still on.
Liam leaned over the counter, wiping mugs that didn’t need cleaning. Across from him, Nora was scribbling in her notebook, lost in a world of words.
“You always come here late,” he said.
She glanced up, her eyes tired but warm. “Because you’re always here.”
He smiled. “Touché.”
They had started as strangers—her a night owl writer, him a barista with insomnia. Over time, the silence between them had become comfortable, even comforting.
Tonight, the snow fell outside in slow motion. Inside, it was just the hum of soft jazz and their quiet breathing.
“You ever wonder why we keep doing this?” she asked, closing her notebook.
Liam looked at her, really looked. “Because it feels like the best part of the day.”
Her lips curved. “Exactly.”
He poured two mugs of coffee—midnight brews, bittersweet—and slid one to her.
Their fingers touched briefly.
“You’ll be here tomorrow?” she asked.
“Always,” he replied.
And somehow, that felt like a promise.
