Silas arrives at 6:45. Not at the café, at the library. I see him through the window, crossing the parking lot with two vending machine coffees, heading for the side entrance where Margaret lets him in early. Our routine. Except today he pauses, looks toward the café, sees me through the glass.
He changes course. Walks to the café. Opens the door.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey. You're supposed to be at the library."
"Library's not open for fifteen minutes. And you're here." He sets one of the vending machine coffees on the counter. "This one's yours."
"I have access to an entire espresso machine."
"You like the vending machine coffee."
"I like that you bring me the vending machine coffee. The coffee itself tastes terrible."
"I know." He smiles. "How's the new blend?"
"Robin's calling it Autumn Awakening. It tastes like cinnamon had a fight with a hazelnut and they both lost."
"That bad?"
"Third iteration. The first two were worse." I slide him a sample cup. "Tell me what you think."
He sips. Considers. "Too much cinnamon. The hazelnut's buried."
"That's what I said. Robin says my palate is broken."
"Your palate is excellent."
I'm grinning. He's smiling, which for Silas is the equivalent of a normal person's full-body laugh. This is how we work. The banter, the books, the steady rhythm of two people who found a language nobody else speaks.
"Go read," I say. "I'll bring your real coffee soon."
"I'll be in the booth."
"You're always in the booth."
"It has good sightlines."
"To the counter."
"To everything." He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, warm, deliberate. Then he takes his vending machine coffee and leaves, crossing back to the library with the easy stride of a man who has a routine and a person in it.
Robin appears behind me. "You two are disgusting."
"You and Vaughn fed each other bacon on Saturday."
"That's different. That's established-couple behavior. You two are in the honeymoon phase. It's sickening."
"You're the one who said you were invested."
"I am invested. I'm invested AND sickened. Both things can be true." He hands me another sample. "Fourth iteration. More hazelnut."
The morning passes. Robin and I work through six versions of Autumn Awakening before settling on one that doesn't taste like a spice rack exploded. I prep for the lunch shift. Stock the pastry case, calibrate the grinder, clean the steamwand. The espresso machine and I are old friends now. I know its moods. It knows mine.
At 11:45, Tyler walks in.
This isn't unusual. Tyler comes by a few times a week, usually on his break from the warehouse, usually to get caffeine and flirt with whoever's nearby. But today he's got Melissa with him, and Melissa is the kind of bright, high-energy person who fills a room just by entering it.