By the time the café's evening crowd thinned and the clock struck past eight, The Roost had settled into a hush. The shadows had grown longer. The lights dimmer—low, golden, and warm like candle flame. The air carried a scent of espresso and melted vanilla. Outside, the world blurred into a cool blue dusk. Inside, the quiet hum of conversations had faded into soft clinks and chair-scrapes.
Aurora untied her apron with one hand while balancing two mugs in the other. Her wrist ached slightly—second day of college and her shift back-to-back—but she didn't mind. Not tonight. Not when he was still here.
Leo had waited.
He sat in the far booth, by the window. The one with the crooked lamp and peeling wallpaper that somehow made it cozier than the others. He hadn't touched the book he brought. Instead, he'd sipped slowly from his mug, eyes drifting across the room, sometimes catching hers, sometimes looking away. As if just being there was enough.
She made her way toward him, the mugs warm against her palms, Mochii's name lazily etched into the foam of one.
Leo looked up.
And smiled.
Not the smirking kind. Not the teasing one he always had at the ready.
This was something else.
Softer.
As if the moment asked him to take his armour off.
Aurora slid into the seat across from him, tucking her legs under herself. She placed the mugs down carefully, then settled back, exhaling through a laugh she hadn't realized she was holding in all evening.
"I survived the second day," she declared.
Leo raised his mug in a mock salute. "To survive."
Their mugs clinked, were quiet and sincere.
Then… silence.
Not awkward. Not heavy.
The kind of silence that stretches like honey—sweet, unhurried. The kind that asks nothing and allows everything.
Aurora stared at the steam spiralling from her drink, tracing its ghostly ascent. She didn't look at him yet. Didn't have to.
She could feel him watching her- too closely, sometimes.
She knew the exact moment he tilted his head and studied her, gaze lingering a bit longer than comfort allowed.
The moment he tucked one hand under his chin, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips.
The warmth in her chest sometimes tangled with a strange nervous flutter, like she wasn't sure whether to lean in or step back.
She gave in, finally looking up. "So… why did you wait?"
Leo didn't flinch. "Didn't feel like leaving."
Simple. As if the answer didn't require thought.
But to her, it did.
Because she wasn't used to people staying. Not after the light dimmed. Not after the work was done.
She chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes skimming his expression like she was still trying to read the story between his lashes.
"I'm not used to this," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
"Used to what?" he asked, gently.
"This," she said, gesturing vaguely. "Being… noticed. Cared about. People usually forget. Or move on. Or expect too much before I can catch up."
Leo didn't answer immediately. He leaned back, eyes narrowed in thought, as if her words had to be taken in slowly, like wine. Then he said quietly, "That's their loss."
Her breath caught. Stuck somewhere between disbelief and longing.
A beat passed. Then another.
She smiled.
Then grinned.
Then laughed out loud.
"What?" he asked, amused now, tilting his head again.
"I don't know," she admitted, face pink with warmth. "Just—this is stupid, I feel stupid—"
He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. "You look happy."
Aurora blinked. "Do I?"
"Yeah," Leo said, his voice lower now, "like someone who's just been told they matter."
She didn't speak. Couldn't.
So instead, she took a sip from her mug.
But inside her?
Fireworks.
Not the grand, chaotic ones.
But the slow, blooming kind.
Like stars unfolding one by one in a quiet night sky.
And somewhere in her heart, a small, stubborn voice whispered—
Maybe this could be something.
The night had settled into one of those late-summer silences—where even the wind tiptoes, afraid to disturb sleeping leaves. Street lamps bled amber light onto the sidewalk, stretching their glow just far enough to cradle two quiet figures stepping out of The Roost.
Aurora held the warm paper bag in one hand—two almond croissants, one for tomorrow morning, one for right now. The other hand gripped the strap of Mochii's soft-sided carrier, swinging gently at her side.
Mochii was sulking.
Not in a cartoonish, exaggerated way.
No, this was pure, concentrated bunny disdain. He had shifted dramatically to one corner of the bag, turned his back fully toward the mesh window, and was refusing to acknowledge the existence of a certain someone walking beside them.
That someone was very much aware of it.
Leo strolled next to Aurora, hands deep in his jacket pockets, a lightness in his step that mirrored the soft upward curve on his lips. The kind of grin you wear when a secret joke keeps whispering in your mind.
He glanced down at the bag swinging beside her leg and smirked.
"I think your rabbit really does hate me."
Aurora peeked through the mesh. Mochii didn't so much as twitch an ear.
She tried to stifle a laugh. "He's just… protective; I guess so."
Leo raised an eyebrow. "Of you?"
"Obviously," she said, mock-proud.
"Well then," Leo mused, voice too- casual, eyes glittering with a sharpness she hadn't seen before, "that makes him my competition. And I don't like to lose."
For a second, Aurora almost tripped over her own feet, uneasy with the way he said it.
"What?"
"I mean," he continued as if he hadn't just dropped a heart-spinning bomb in the quiet air, "look at him. All fluffed up and brooding. Hasn't even blinked in my direction. That's some real disapproval."
She narrowed her eyes. "He doesn't like new people."
"Ah, so I'm still new?" Leo tilted his head dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "Here I thought we shared a meaningful croissant-and-coffee moment."
Aurora rolled her eyes, but her smile betrayed her. "You're impossible."
Leo leaned just a little closer as they walked, his voice dipping, "Mochii's already glaring daggers. Might as well earn them properly."
Her eyes widened. "Don't you dare—"
Too late.
Leo bent slightly toward the bag, grinning devilishly.
"Hey, Moch. I'm not sharing her, just so we're clear."
Inside the carrier, Mochii's ears twitched. Slowly, deliberately, he turned his little bunny body around to face Leo—one beady eye glaring straight through the mesh like a warning beacon.
Aurora gasped, clutching the bag like a scandalized mother.
"You just provoked him."
"I like him," Leo declared with mock sincerity. "He's got a taste."
"Yeah, well," Aurora said, biting down a laugh, "he also bites."
Leo's grin only grew. "So do I."
The words hung in the air between them like warm breath in winter.
Aurora opened her mouth, then closed it, too stunned to utter a word.
'How can he say such a thing without blinking,' she thought.
She blinked.
Twice.
"I… I don't even know what to do with that," she muttered, cheeks flushed, ears tinted pink.
They walked on, and for a few moments, the only sound was the rhythm of their shoes on pavement and the occasional rustling inside the carrier as Mochii adjusted his position—probably to keep Leo in sight at all times.
Aurora tilted her head up at the navy-blue sky, staring beneath the glow of city lights.
"Y'know," she said softly, "this is… kinda nice."
Leo looked over. His voice is gentle. "Yeah. It is."
They didn't need to name it. Didn't need to explain the strange little pocket of stillness they'd stepped into tonight.
Whatever it was—
Between flirty teases, sulky rabbits, and shared silences—
It felt like something real.
And for now, that was enough.