Silas comes in around 12:45, settling into the corner booth with his book and a quiet "hey" that makes my heart skip.
"Croissant?" I ask, already reaching for the best one, the one with the most visible layers, golden and shatteringly crisp on the outside.
"Please. And coffee when you get a chance."
I make his coffee. Large, black, the same as every time. I know the mug he likes now, the blue one with the chip on the handle that fits comfortably in big hands. I set it down with the croissant and he nods his thanks, and I go back to the counter.
That's it. That's the whole interaction, and it's enough. More than enough. He's here, reading in his booth, and I'm here, making drinks, and every time I look over he's there. Present. Not going anywhere.
The afternoon is quiet. A few regulars, a woman with a toddler who orders a decaf latte and looks like she hasn't slept since 2019. I make her drink perfect and add a tiny heart in the foam because Robin taught me how last week and she looks like she needs it. She almost cries.
At 2:30, Robin nudges me. "Break time. Go."
I glance at Silas's booth. He's reading, but there's a second coffee on the table. One he didn't order. He got up at some point and bought a coffee from the vending machine in the library and brought it back for me.
I pull off my apron and walk over. The coffee is lukewarm and terrible, vending machine coffee always is, but he remembered from this morning. He remembered that I drank the vending machine coffee and he went and got one for me.
"Thanks," I say, sliding into the booth across from him.
"Figured you'd want caffeine, even though you work here." He marks his page with, yes, still my note from Thursday. Still the smiley face bookmark. "How's Kvothe?"
"Insufferable. I love him."
"That's the correct response."
We talk about the book for a few minutes, not the deep dive of Friday, just easy observations. He asks what I think of Denna, and I say I don't trust her yet, and he makes a sound that's not agreement or disagreement, just acknowledgment that I'm on the right track. We talk about unreliable narrators in general, whether Kvothe is lying about everything or just the parts that make him look good. Whether it matters.
"I think all narrators are unreliable," I say. "Everyone tells their own story the way they need it to be true."
He looks at me for a beat. "That's either very wise or very cynical."
"Can't it be both?"
"Yeah," he says, almost smiling. "It can be both."
My break is twenty minutes. We spend twelve of them talking and eight of them reading in silence, and the silent part is better than most conversations I've ever had.
When I get up to go back to work, I pause. I've been thinking about this since this morning, since I found the book on my chair. He gave me a recommendation. It's only fair.
"Hold on," I say.
I go behind the counter, grab a pastry bag and the pen by the register. Box up two of the morning buns, the good ones, the ones Robin set aside for pride members that nobody's claimed yet. Tear off a piece of receipt paper.
If you haven't read it yet — The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay. Historical fantasy, gorgeous prose, and it'll destroy you. Fair warning. — D
I add a smiley face. Because it's our thing now, apparently.
I put the note in the bag with the morning buns and set it on his table when I bring his check.
"What's this?" he asks.
"Leftovers. They'll just go stale."
He opens the bag. Sees the note. Reads it. I watch his face. Surprise first, then warmth, then that almost-smile that I'm starting to think is just how he smiles. Not big. Not performative. Just real.
"Guy Gavriel Kay," he says. "Haven't read him."
"You'll love him. The prose is, I mean, it's different from Rothfuss, more restrained, but when it hits, it hits."