I shouldn't answer. But Robin's looking at me with this expression that's kind and interested and it's been so long since anyone wanted to know what I think about anything.
"He reads fantasy but the good stuff, no quick airport books. He's careful with books, never breaks the spines. He reads fast but thoroughly, probably retains everything. He's left-handed but was trained to be ambidextrous, you can see it in how he switches hands when taking notes. He —" I stop because Robin's grinning. "What?"
"You've got it bad."
"I don't have anything. I just notice things."
"Sure. And I just casually notice that Vaughn's favorite coffee changes based on his mood, and that he drums his fingers when he's thinking, and that he gets this tiny smile when — you know what, we're not talking about me." Robin shakes his head. "Thursday through Monday, you're here. And mysteriously, I bet Silas is going to start needing a lot more coffee."
"He's not — he wouldn't —"
"Dev, honey, he kept your note."
"As a bookmark!"
"As a bookmark," Robin agrees. "Instead of literally any other piece of paper in existence. Definitely no significance there."
I want to argue, but a customer comes in wanting something complicated with oat milk and sugar-free vanilla, and by the time I'm done, Robin's moved on to terrorizing his latest batch of experimental cookies.
The rest of my shift passes quietly. At six, I clean everything twice, set up for tomorrow, and gather my things. Just my jacket and the book I'm reading,The Shadow of What Was Lost. Good fantasy, even if the magic system needs another pass.
"You heading out?" Robin asks, boxing up leftover pastries. "Want these? They'll just go stale overnight."
He always offers. Always acts like it's no big deal. A bag of fancy pastries that would cost thirty dollars easy, handed over like it's nothing. Apricot frangipane, blueberry lemon scones, aslice of the pear galette that didn't make the display case. I know what he's doing. I also know I'm in no position to turn it down.
"Thanks," I say, taking the bag even though it makes me feel like charity.
"You staying to read?"
"For a bit."
"Security does rounds at nine-thirty now. Just so you know."
Because of course he's noticed I stay late. Probably noticed I show up early too. Robin notices everything, files it away behind that cheerful exterior.
"Thanks," I say again.
He waves me off, already planning tomorrow's menu based on whatever chaos his experiments created today.
I find my usual spot in the back of the reference section. Good light, comfortable chair, completely hidden from the main areas. Pull out my book, settle the pastry bag beside me for later. The library's quiet now, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant keyboard clicking from whoever's manning the front desk.
At nine twenty-five, I pack up and head for the exit. The rain's steadier now, and I pull my hood up for the eight-block walk to the shelter. Could take the bus, but that costs money I need to save. Sixty more days. The studio on Birch Street is $650 a month, first and last plus deposit. I've got eleven hundred saved. I need another eight-fifty, minimum, to feel safe. Sixty days to earn what I can, spend as little as possible, and pray the apartment's still available when I get there.
As I pass the fiction section, movement catches my eye. There, in his usual corner, is Silas. Still reading. The library closed to the public an hour ago, but there he is.
He looks up as I pass, gives me a small nod.
I nod back, keep walking even though my brain's screaming questions. How is he still here? Does he know someone who works here? Is he friends with security?
But those are questions for people who actually talk to each other, not for weird baristas who leave notes in pastry boxes.
* * *
The shelter's crowded tonight. Thursday always is, something about the weekend approaching makes more kids show up. I navigate through the common room, dodging a heated argument about whose turn it is on the Xbox, and climb to the third floor where the "aging out" kids stay. We get actual rooms up here, tiny and shared, but better than the open dorms below.
My roommate Tyler is already asleep, snoring into his pillow. I move quietly, stashing the pastries in our mini-fridge for tomorrow, changing into sleep clothes in the dark. My bed creaks when I sit, but Tyler doesn't stir.
I pull out my phone, the ancient thing that barely holds a charge, and open my library app. PutDragonflighton hold, just in case. Just in case Silas actually takes my recommendation and I need to reread it to remember details. Just in case he wants to talk about it.