"I call it like I see it. Go take your break."
It's only 2:15 but Robin's already pushing me toward the booth. I untie my apron, grab my water, and slide across from Silas.
"Hi," I say again, because apparently my vocabulary has shrunk to one word.
"Hi." He closes his book. The bookmark is still my first note, the dragon recommendation, the smiley face, now joined by three others. A small library of us. "You okay?"
"Yeah. You?"
"Didn't sleep much."
"Me either."
We look at each other. There's a beat of silence that isn't empty. It's full of last night, the overlook, the kiss, his hands on my face, the way he said can I kiss you properly like it mattered that I said yes.
"About tonight," he starts.
"I was thinking about what to wear and I only have three shirts."
"Wear any of them. I don't care about shirts."
"That's what I figured, but Tyler will have opinions when he gets back. He'll want to style me like a project."
"Tyler has good instincts. The blue shirt looked good."
"You noticed."
"I notice everything about you." He says it simply, echoing what I said at the overlook, and the callback makes my chest tight. "Dev —"
"Don't say something serious. I can't handle serious right now. I'll start crying in the café and Robin will never let me live it down."
He almost smiles. "Okay. Not serious. What chapter are you on?"
"Twenty-three. Kvothe just got to the Eolian."
"The music scene?"
"The music scene. It's beautiful and I hate him for making it look easy."
"Nothing Kvothe does is easy. He just makes it look that way."
"Is that a character observation or a life philosophy?"
"Both."
We talk about the book. About Kvothe's performance, about the difference between talent and practice, about how Rothfuss writes music in prose in a way that makes you hear it.It's our language, books, and falling back into it after the charged silence feels like breathing.
At 2:35 Robin calls me back. The afternoon passes. Silas reads. I work. The rhythm is the same as every day this week but the frequency is different, higher, tighter, more aware. Every time I walk past his booth to deliver an order, I feel the pull. A gravity between us that wasn't there when he first walked into this café and ordered a large coffee, black.
It's only been about a week since a note in a pastry box to this, to him in my phone, in my chest, in the space behind my eyes where I used to keep only books.
At six, I clock out. Clean up. Pack my things. Robin hands me the pastry bag, extra full again, conspicuously so.
"Have fun tonight," he says. "And by fun I mean —"
"Goodbye, Robin."
"Be safe! Use protection! Not that you need protection from books, but —"