Tuesdays weren't supposed to feel like this.
Janie had given me the afternoon off without much discussion, a quiet decision made behind the counter between orders and passing comments, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. I had agreed to come in on Saturday, even though we were closed, to help with stock take, fully expecting it to mean an extra shift somewhere in the week, another reason to keep moving, to avoid the stillness that waited for me at home. But instead, she had simply smiled, warm and certain, and told me I was working too much.
If she had known what my life actually looked like outside of the café, what my thoughts sounded like when there was nothing to drown them out, she would have done the opposite. She would have filled every hour, every gap, every quiet moment that gave my mind too much space to wander.
The morning passed the way it always did, fast and relentless, the kind of rhythm that left no room for anything but what was directly in front of you. Orders overlapped, coffee cups moved from one hand to another in a practiced flow, the steady hiss of the espresso machine grounding everything in something familiar. There were the usual customers, some kind, some impatient, some barely present at all, already halfway into their day before they had even stepped up to the counter.
Janie, Zariah, and I moved around each other with an ease that had taken me by surprise, something that had settled gradually over the past couple of weeks without me noticing exactly when it had happened. I knew where things were now, knew how to keep up without hesitating, knew how to recover quickly when something went slightly wrong. The small mistakes that had once felt overwhelming no longer carried the same weight, replaced instead by a quiet confidence I hadn't expected to find so soon.
And still, beneath it all, the thoughts remained.
They didn't disappear, didn't quiet completely, but they shifted into the background, held at a distance just enough for me to function, to focus on the present without being entirely consumed by everything I had started to uncover. It wasn't resolution, not even close, but it was something manageable. Something I could work around.
For now.
By the time the clock edged toward noon, the rush had softened into something more bearable, the café settling into a quieter rhythm as the morning crowd thinned out and the space began to breathe again. Janie glanced toward me as she wiped down the counter, her expression gentle but firm in a way that left little room for argument.
"You can head off." she said, nodding slightly toward the back. "You've done enough today."
I nodded in response, but I didn't move right away.
Instead, I reached for a cloth, turning back toward the counter as though there was still something left to finish, something small and insignificant that would justify staying a little longer.
"I'll just help tidy up a bit first." I said, my voice light, casual enough to pass without question.
Janie watched me for a second, her gaze thoughtful in a way that made me wonder how much she noticed, how much she chose not to say. But she didn't push it. She just gave a small nod and let me be.
The bell above the door chimed softly not long after, the familiar sound cutting gently through the quiet that had settled in the space.
I glanced up instinctively, my movements slowing slightly as Elliott stepped inside, already shrugging off his jacket as he made his way toward the counter. He wasn't scheduled to work that day, which made his presence feel more relaxed somehow, less tied to routine and more to choice.
"Looks tidy in here today." he commented, his gaze moving briefly around the café before settling on us.
Janie wiped her hands against her apron, a small smile forming as she leaned lightly against the counter.
"That's because Katherine's doing extra work." she said, nodding in my direction. "We told her she could leave an hour ago."
I gave a small shrug in response, glancing between them without offering much more than that, unsure how to explain that leaving didn't feel like the easier option.
Elliott's expression shifted slightly as he looked at me, something softer settling there, something closer to understanding than curiosity.
"Oh, please tell me you actually have some plans for the afternoon." he said, his tone light, but his eyes searching mine just enough to make the question feel more intentional than it sounded.
For a moment, I didn't answer, because the truth was simple. I didn't.
It was either this, this noise, this movement, this steady distraction, or going back to the apartment, back to the quiet, back to the weight of everything waiting for me there.
And I wasn't sure which one felt worse.
Elliott seemed to read the answer before I could say it, his head tilting slightly as he let out a small breath, somewhere between amused and resigned.
"Right." he said, nodding once as if confirming something to himself. "That's what I thought."
He leaned lightly against the counter, glancing toward the door before looking back at me.
"I've got a bit of time before I meet Rick." he added, his tone shifting into something more casual, more inviting. "Come grab some lunch with me."
My first instinct was immediate. No.
It rose to the surface automatically, familiar and safe, the easiest response to give when something stepped too close to the edges of my routine, when someone offered something that required more of me than I was used to giving.
But then, just as quickly, something else followed.
The memory of sitting across from Zariah, the warmth of that moment, the quiet way the noise in my head had softened, even if only for a little while.
The realization that it had felt… easier.
Not fixed. Not gone. But easier.
I hesitated, just for a second, long enough to feel the weight of the decision before I let it settle.
"Okay." I said, the word coming out softer than I expected, something closer to genuine than anything I had offered before.
Elliott's expression brightened almost immediately, his smile easy, unforced.
"Great." he said, already pushing himself off the counter.
I didn't give myself time to overthink it.
I turned, moving quickly toward the back to grab my things before I could change my mind, before the quiet voice in my head had a chance to remind me of everything waiting for me at home.
For now, this felt like the better choice.
The place Elliott chose wasn't far from the café, but it felt like it belonged to a different version of the city.
It sat just at the edge of the business district, where the glass buildings began to thin out and the streets opened slightly, allowing light to settle more gently instead of bouncing sharply between steel and windows. The restaurant itself was set back from the road, framed by wide glass panels that let the afternoon sun spill inside uninterrupted. From the outside, it looked almost effortless, whitewashed walls, soft greenery climbing along one side, small round tables scattered near the entrance where people lingered over drinks as if time moved slower there.
Inside, it was bright and open, the air warm but not heavy, carrying the scent of olive oil, citrus, and something lightly charred from the kitchen. The space felt alive in a quieter way than the café, filled with low conversation, the occasional clink of glasses, and the easy rhythm of people who weren't in a rush to be anywhere else.
Elliott paused just inside the doorway, glancing back at me with a small, satisfied smile.
"See, Chigaco does exist outside the walls of Sullivan's and your apartment."
"It's nice." I admitted, and I meant it.
"Nice," he repeated, like that wasn't nearly enough credit. "It's life-changing, actually. Give it a minute."
We were led to a table near the window, sunlight falling across the surface in a way that made everything feel warmer, more real. I sat down slowly, aware of how unfamiliar it felt to be somewhere like this in the middle of the day, not working, not passing through, but staying.
Elliott slid into the seat opposite me with ease, already at home in the space.
"We're getting at least three dishes each, that's how this works." he slid a menu toward me, letting my eyes run through options amongst options.
A server appeared beside us, and Elliott didn't hesitate.
"Two glasses of white," he said, then glanced at me briefly. "Something light, she's new to having a life."
I opened my mouth to object, the instinct rising almost automatically, before I caught myself and let it fall away just as quickly. It wasn't that I didn't drink, I had, plenty of times. Chris and I had shared more bottles of wine than I could count, scattered across evenings that blurred between the difficult and the easy, the heavy conversations and the quiet ones that didn't need many words at all. There had been celebrations, small and fleeting, and moments where there had been no reason at all beyond the comfort of not being alone in it.
But this felt different.
It wasn't about the drink itself, it was the idea of choosing it, of stepping into something without a reason tied to memory or necessity. It was unfamiliar in a way I couldn't quite explain, something that made me hesitate not because I didn't want to, but because I wasn't used to wanting things like that anymore.
"Good," he nodded, satisfied with me not objecting to the wine. "That's step one. Next, we get you to stop eating sad microwave meals alone."
I let out a small breath that almost turned into a laugh, shaking my head slightly.
"You don't know that I do that."
"I absolutely know that you do that," he replied without hesitation, "You have the energy of someone who tells herself it's 'fine' and then eats pasta straight out of the container."
"That feels… specific."
"It's observational," he corrected lightly. "I teach children. I read people for a living."
"You teach guitar," I said, looking back up at him.
"Exactly," he nodded. "You'd be amazed how much emotional instability comes with a six-year-old who can't get through 'Twinkle Twinkle' without a breakdown."
That pulled a real smile from me this time, small but genuine.
The sunlight shifted slightly across the table as time moved, catching the rim of the glasses when they arrived, the pale color of the wine almost translucent in the light. I wrapped my fingers around mine, the coolness grounding, even as something in me felt just slightly… softer.
Elliott leaned back in his seat, watching me for a second in a way that didn't feel intrusive, just observant.
"You look like you don't do this often." he said.
"I don't," I admitted.
"Okay," he nodded. "We'll fix that."
The food began to arrive not long after, small plates, placed between us one by one, each one brighter than the last. Roasted vegetables glistening with oil, slices of bread still warm, something topped with herbs and citrus that carried a freshness I hadn't realized I had been missing. It looked delicous and my stomach slightly rumbled, which made me realise I had not eaten a fresh meal for over a month.
"This is good." I said, a little surprised, after dragging a piece of pork belly off my pork.
"I know." he replied, satisfied. "I have excellent taste."
"That remains to be seen."
He laughed at that, an easy, unguarded sound that didn't ask anything of me in return.
The conversation settled into something natural after that, moving without effort. Elliott spoke more than I did at first, but not in a way that felt overwhelming. He filled the space in a way that made it easier for me to exist within it, offering pieces of his life without expecting anything in return.
He talked about Rick the way people talked about something steady, something chosen carefully over time. You could easily tell he was in love, it was a beautiful sight to witness.
"He's the organized one." Elliott said, reaching for his glass. "We've got spreadsheets for everything. Savings, rent, groceries. It's deeply unromantic."
"But effective." I said.
"Painfully." he nodded, a smile playing on his lips. "We're trying to save for a place. Which means every time I think about buying something unnecessary, I can hear him in my head telling me to behave."
The wine was easy to drink, lighter than I expected, and somewhere between the warmth of the space, the softness of the light, and the steady rhythm of the conversation, I realized I had stopped bracing myself.
Not completely. But enough to notice the difference in myself, it was like for the first time in forever I allowed myself to just be present in the moment, not worrying, not overthinking, just...being.
The second glass of wine came without much thought, placed in front of me with the same ease as the first, and this time I didn't hesitate before taking a sip. The edges of everything softened just slightly more after that.
Not enough to blur anything, but enough that the constant tension I carried felt less immediate, less sharp. My thoughts slowed, the weight of them shifting into something I could hold without it pressing quite so hard.
"You're different like this." Elliott said at one point, his voice thoughtful rather than critical.
"Like what?" I asked, a geneuine smile playing on my lips.
"Less… guarded." he said carefully. "Like you're not waiting for something to go wrong."
I held his gaze for a second before looking away, not because I disagreed, but because I didn't know how to respond to it.
"I don't think I do that." I said quietly.
"Well, you're not doing it right now." he nodded without arguing.
I didn't answer that. Instead, I let the moment pass, taking another sip of my drink, letting the warmth settle quietly beneath everything else.
For a brief, unexpected moment, something about this felt normal. Sitting here. Talking. Existing without needing to explain myself.
It had been a long time since something had felt this easy. And realizing that hurt more than I expected.
"You should do this more." Elliott said lightly.
"Sit in the sun and drink wine?" I asked.
"Exist." he corrected.
I shook my head slightly, a faint smile returning despite myself.
"I'll try."
We finished up not long after, the plates gradually emptied, the conversation easing into something softer as the afternoon stretched on around us. Elliott glanced at his phone once, then again, and I knew without him needing to say it that he had somewhere else to be, someone else waiting for him. Rick. The name came with a quiet warmth every time he mentioned it, something steady and certain that I wasn't used to seeing up close.
"I should probably head." he said eventually, though there was no rush in his voice, no impatience. Just acknowledgment.
I nodded, even though a small part of me wished the moment could stretch just a little longer, that I could stay suspended in something that felt this… easy.
"I won't keep you," I replied, offering him a small smile that felt more genuine than most of the ones I had given lately.
But as we stood, gathering our things, I found it difficult to put into words just how much I had needed that, how much I had enjoyed it. The lightness of the space, the openness of the conversation, the way nothing had felt forced or expected. It had all unfolded so naturally, so quietly, that I hadn't noticed the shift until it was already there.
I couldn't tell if it was the wine, the soft warmth still lingering, loosening the edges of everything, or if it was something else entirely. Something real. Something I hadn't allowed myself to feel in a long time.
Maybe it didn't matter and for once, I didn't feel like I needed to analyze it.
We stepped out into the afternoon together, the brightness of the day settling over us as the door closed behind us, the quiet hum of the restaurant fading into the background. Elliott pulled me into a quick, easy hug before we parted, something casual and unspoken that still carried a quiet sense of care.
"Text me when you get home," he said lightly, already stepping back. "Just so I know you didn't get lost on your big adventure."
I let out a small breath that almost resembled a laugh. "I'll try my best."
He grinned at that, then turned, disappearing into the movement of the street with an ease that matched everything else about him.
And just like that, I was alone again. But it didn't feel the same as it usually did.
I adjusted my jacket slightly as I began the walk back toward my apartment, my steps unhurried, my thoughts quieter than they had been all morning. The city moved around me in its usual rhythm, steady and alive, but for the first time since I had arrived here, I didn't feel completely out of place within it.
Not entirely. Just… less distant.
The fountain was easy to miss if you weren't looking for it.
It sat just off the main path of the business district, tucked between two glass buildings that reflected the afternoon light in sharp, clean angles. Water moved steadily from its center, spilling over smooth stone in a way that softened the otherwise rigid space around it. People passed by without stopping, their steps quick, purposeful, their attention fixed on somewhere else. It wasn't a place meant for lingering.
And yet, I did.
I wasn't entirely sure what had drawn me there. Maybe it was the way the sunlight caught the water, or the simple fact that for once, I didn't have anywhere I needed to be. Or maybe it was the faint warmth still lingering in my chest from lunch, from the unfamiliar ease of conversation, from the quiet feeling of having existed for a few hours without the constant weight of everything else pressing down on me.
I lowered myself onto the edge of the fountain, the cool stone grounding beneath me as I exhaled slowly, letting my gaze follow the movement of the water as it slipped over the surface again and again, steady and uninterrupted.
For the first time in what felt like days, my thoughts weren't loud.
They were still there, of course. They hadn't gone anywhere. But they felt… further away. Less urgent. Like something I could almost choose not to focus on, if only for a moment.
I let that feeling stay.
Around me, the city continued in its usual rhythm. People moved in and out of the surrounding buildings, their voices low, their footsteps quick, their lives structured in ways that made sense to them. There was something oddly comforting about it, watching it all from a slight distance, like I was sitting just outside of something I didn't fully belong to, but could still observe without being pulled into it.
My fingers traced lightly over the edge of the stone beside me, the faint dampness from the fountain clinging to my skin, when a shift in movement caught my attention.
Not dramatic. Not sudden.
Just…different.
I lifted my gaze without thinking, and there he was.
He stepped out of one of the buildings across from me, the glass doors sliding shut behind him as he moved forward with the same quiet certainty I had come to associate with him. He wasn't alone at first—two other men walked beside him, their conversation still mid-flow, their gestures animated in a way that suggested something important, something ongoing.
But even among them, he felt separate.
Less reactive. More controlled.
He listened more than he spoke, his posture composed, his expression unreadable in a way that made it difficult to tell whether he agreed with anything being said at all. When he did respond, it was brief, measured, enough to acknowledge but not enough to invite anything further.
It struck me then, sitting there, that this was his world.
Not the café.
Not the quiet exchange of a few words over a coffee cup.
This.
Glass buildings. Conversations that carried weight. A rhythm that moved just as quickly as the morning rush, but with a different kind of urgency beneath it.
I watched him for a moment longer than I should have.
Not intentionally.
Just… because I noticed him.
And then, as if something had shifted, his gaze lifted.
For a fraction of a second, it moved past me, scanning the space without focus, and then it stopped.
On me.
There was no immediate reaction, nothing obvious, but something in his posture changed almost imperceptibly, like recognition had settled into place.
The conversation beside him continued for another moment before coming to a natural close. The two men nodded, exchanging a few final words before heading in a different direction, leaving him where he stood.
For a brief second, he didn't move. And then he did.
He walked toward the fountain. Toward me.
I knew I should have looked away. The thought came to me almost immediately, instinctive, familiar, the kind of quiet warning I had learned to listen to without question. There was no reason to hold his gaze, no reason to acknowledge the moment at all, and yet I found myself staying exactly where I was, my attention fixed in a way that felt quieter than curiosity, but stronger than indifference.
By the time he reached the edge of the fountain, I had already realised I was going to say something.
I just didn't know what.
"You do exist outside coffee orders, then." The words left me before I could reconsider them, lighter than I intended, edged with something that might have passed for humor if I hadn't been so aware of how unlike me it was to speak first.
For a moment, he didn't respond.
He simply looked at me, his expression unchanged, though there was something sharper in his gaze now, something more focused, as if my words had shifted something small but noticeable in his attention.
"I do." he said eventually, his voice even, controlled in the same way it always was. There was something about it, ow, steady, carrying just enough weight to settle without effort. "Occasionally."
A small breath left me, something close to a laugh, though it didn't quite reach that point.
"That's reassuring." I replied, shifting slightly against the cool stone beneath me. "I was starting to think you only existed between seven fifteen and seven-thirty."
His green gaze flickered, not quite a smile, but something close enough to suggest the comment had landed the way I had intended it to.
"You're here." he said instead, his tone shifting just slightly, not questioning, but noting.
It took me a second to understand what he meant, and when I did, something in my chest shifted quietly. For him, I only existed in those early morning moments, behind the counter, part of a routine rather than a person.
"Yeah." I said, glancing briefly toward the buildings surrounding us before returning my gaze to him. "Afternoon off."
It sounded simpler out loud than it had felt.
He nodded once, as though that explained enough, as though he didn't need anything more than that.
For a moment, the silence returned, though it didn't feel as sharp as it had the last time we had spoken. There was something steadier about it now, something that didn't press against me, didn't demand to be filled.
"You don't seem like you take days off." I added after a second, the words slipping out softer than I expected.
His gaze shifted again, more deliberate now, studying me in a way that felt intentional rather than casual.
"I do." he said. "They just don't look like this."
I followed the direction of his glance, taking in the fountain, the open space, the people moving without urgency, the kind of stillness I had stumbled into without meaning to.
"Maybe they should." I said quietly.
Something in his expression shifted again, subtle enough that I couldn't define it, but present all the same.
"Maybe." he replied, though it didn't sound like something he believed.
A light breeze moved through the space, catching the surface of the water and breaking the reflection of the buildings into something softer, less structured, less precise.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
I became aware then of the faint warmth still lingering in my system, the quiet looseness in my thoughts, the way my guard had lowered just enough to let things slip through that I might have otherwise kept to myself. It wasn't enough to make me careless, but it was enough to make me honest in ways I usually wasn't.
"You always look like you're expecting something." I said before I could stop myself. "In the café," I added quickly, though I wasn't sure it softened it. "You always seem… ready."
"Occupational habit."
I smiled at his response, not because it brought me any real sense of amusement, but because it was exactly what I had expected from him, no elaboration, no unnecessary words, he didn;t waste them.
His gaze remained on me, sharp but not unkind, the kind of attention that didn't wander, that didn't drift, as though when he looked at someone, he chose to see them fully.
"Could anything ever break this habit?" I asked, the words slipping out more easily than they should have, the wine softening the edges of my restraint.
He held my gaze for a moment longer than necessary, something measured settling behind his eyes before he answered, his voice even, almost indifferent.
"You're welcome to try."
The words didn't feel like a joke. They didn't feel like an invitation either.
They simply… existed, suspended between us with a quiet weight that I couldn't quite define.
And just like that, he turned, stepping back into the movement of the city, his presence folding seamlessly into the rhythm of everything around us as though he had never stepped out of it at all.
I remained where I was for a moment longer, the faint warmth of the wine still lingering beneath my skin, the steady sound of the fountain grounding me in the present, even as something in the air had shifted in a way I couldn't quite explain.
My fingers traced absently along the edge of the stone beside me as I let out a slow breath, my thoughts no longer spiraling the way they had been before, but not settled either.
Interrupted.
Displaced.
And somewhere beneath it all, quieter than the rest but impossible to ignore, was the awareness that something about him hadn't felt accidental.
"You're welcome to try."
The words echoed again, softer this time, as though repeating them might help me understand what they were meant to mean.