The next evening, Elena worked the late shift. The cafe lights glowed against the darkened streets, warm and golden, drawing in the few night wanderers who sought comfort in coffee and conversation. She tied her apron snugly at her waist, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she balanced two plates on her arm.
It had been almost twenty-four hours since the clumsy encounter. She had tried not to think about it. Tried not to replay the way his eyes had caught on her sketch, or the way her heart had leaped like she'd been caught stealing. But the harder she tried not to think of him, the clearer his face became in her mind.
The bell above the door jingled.
Her hand tightened on the tray.
Adrian Vale stepped inside again.
This time, he wasn't dusty from travel. He wore a plain navy shirt, his dog tags tucked beneath the collar. His gaze scanned the room with practiced precision, then softened as he approached the counter. He ordered the same thing: black coffee, no sugar, no cream. His voice carried that same low steadiness, the kind that could quiet a room without needing to be asked.
Elena lowered her eyes quickly, busying herself with wiping a perfectly clean table. She told herself she wasn't hiding.
When she turned, however, he wasn't at the window seat. He was at the table nearest the counter, and his gaze flickered toward her, not long enough to be intrusive but enough that she felt it like a spark.
She exhaled slowly and returned behind the counter. The barista on duty tonight was slow with the espresso machine, and somehow it was Elena who ended up carrying the mug over.
"Here you go," she said, careful not to meet his eyes.
"Thanks." His reply was simple, but it lingered, as if he had meant more than the word carried.
Elena turned to leave, but his voice followed.
"Hey," he said.
She paused.
"I, uh..." His brow furrowed, as though choosing words was a battle of its own. "I didn't mean to ruin your drawing yesterday."
Her fingers tightened on her apron. She forced herself to glance at him. His eyes were steady, calm, but not cold. There was sincerity there, and something else... Hesitation.
"You didn't ruin it," she said softly. Then, after a beat, "I ruin most of them myself."
To her surprise, he smiled faintly. It wasn't broad or careless. It was small, almost reluctant, but real. "I doubt that."
For the rest of the night, Elena found herself circling past his table more than necessary. Not because he needed anything, he never asked, but because something about his presence drew her like gravity. He sat with his coffee, sometimes glancing at the window, sometimes tracing his finger absentmindedly along the rim of the mug. A man lost in his thoughts, yet grounded by silence.
When his cup was empty, he rose. He left money on the table, a small tip folded neatly beneath the mug. Before leaving, his gaze brushed hers again. This time, he gave a small nod as an acknowledgement, nothing more.
And yet, when the bell chimed and the door closed behind him, her chest felt strangely light.
Over the following week, he came again and again.
Not every night, but often enough that she began to expect it. He never sat at the same table twice, though always by the window, always with black coffee. Sometimes he stayed for only half an hour. Other times, until closing.
At first, they had exchanged only brief words. A "Thank you," a "Good night." But slowly, the edges of their silence softened.
"You draw every day?" he asked once, nodding at her sketchbook left open behind the counter.
"Every chance I get," she replied, keeping her voice casual though her hands fumbled slightly with the spoon she was polishing.
"Good," he said shortly, before returning to his coffee.
Another evening, he noticed the mural near the counter. The waves were painted in faded blues and greens by a local artist years ago. "Yours?" he asked.
Elena shook her head. "No. I wish."
"You could," he said, his tone so matter-of-fact it startled her.
And then there were the silences that weren't silences at all. The ones where words weren't needed, where the quiet stretch of time felt like something shared, not avoided. She found herself sketching more freely when he was near, as though his steady presence anchored her restless hands.
It was one late afternoon, the sky painted orange and gold, when she finally asked him something in return.
"You're not from here, are you?"
Adrian looked up from his coffee. For a moment, his gaze sharpened, guarded. But then he exhaled softly. "No. Just passing through."
"On leave?" she guessed, nodding faintly toward the tags she sometimes glimpsed beneath his shirt.
His eyes held hers, unreadable, before he nodded once. "Yeah."
Elena hesitated, unsure if she had overstepped their boundary. But he didn't seem angry, just thoughtful. His shoulders eased, his voice lowered as if sharing something fragile.
"This town's quiet," he said. "Not many places are like this anymore."
She smiled faintly. "That's why I can't leave and why I can't stay."
He tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
She tapped her sketchbook. "My dream is out there somewhere. Art school. Exhibitions. Big city. But this..." She gestured at the cafe window, the stretch of sea beyond. "This is home. It feels wrong to let go of it."
Adrian studied her for a long moment. His gaze softened in a way that made her chest tighten. "Maybe you don't have to let go," he said.
For a second, she wondered if he was talking about her dream. Or if he meant something else entirely.
The bell chimed as another customer entered, breaking the moment. Adrian straightened, returning to his coffee. Elena turned back to her duties, but her pulse lingered on his words long after.
By the time her shift was over, the stars were out, scattered bright and countless above the quiet town. Elena stretched her body before folding her apron into her arm.
As she stepped outside, she noticed him across the street. Adrian leaned against the railing that overlooked the sea, the starlight brushing against his face. He hadn't left when Scythe had finished her shift. He hadn't left at all.
For a moment, Elena stood frozen. Then, gathering courage she wasn't sure she had, she crossed the cobblestones.
"You like the view?" she asked, her voice barely louder than the ocean's breath.
She stood beside him, the silence stretching between them. But this silence wasn't heavy. It was soft, like the space between brushstrokes.
When she finally looked at him, his gaze was on the stars. And something in her knew, even if she didn't have words for it yet, she knows this was the beginning of something neither of them could ignore.