Aiden hesitates before moving.
It's subtle—barely a pause at all—but Elara notices it because she's watching now, aware in a way she hadn't been yesterday. His gaze flicks briefly to the chair across from her, then to Mira sitting beside her, then back again.
He approaches anyway.
"Elara," he says, his voice even, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
She stands halfway without realizing it, then settles back into her chair, a little embarrassed by the instinct.
"Aiden."
Mira looks between them. "You know each other?"
"Yes," Aiden answers calmly, before Elara can. "We spoke yesterday."
"Briefly," Elara adds, unsure why she feels the need to clarify.
Mira smiles, the kind that carries curiosity without intrusion. "I was just about to head out," she says, reaching for her bag. "Deadline calls."
Elara knows that tone. The graceful exit. She appreciates it more than she can articulate.
"It was nice talking to you," Mira says, touching Elara's shoulder lightly before leaving.
When she's gone, the space feels… altered. Not heavier. Just more aware of itself.
Aiden gestures toward the empty chair. "May I?"
"Yes," Elara says. Then, after a beat, "Of course."
He sits.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Rain taps softly against the windows, a steady rhythm that fills the silence without demanding anything of it. Elara notices small details she hadn't yesterday—the way he rests his hands loosely on the table, the faint crease between his brows when he's thinking.
"You come here often," he says.
"Yes."
He nods, as if confirming something. "I thought so."
She lifts an eyebrow. "You thought so?"
"You seem… settled here."
The word lands gently. Settled, not fixed. Known, not claimed.
"I like it," she says simply. "It helps me slow down."
Aiden glances around. "It has that effect."
Another pause. This one feels intentional.
"Do you always sit here?" he asks.
"Usually."
"Good spot," he says. "You see everything without being in the way."
Elara studies him. There's no judgment in his tone. No implication. Just observation.
She realizes, then, that this is what unsettled her yesterday—not that he noticed her, but how he did it. Without asking her to perform. Without turning it into something she had to respond to.
"Do you do that often?" she asks.
"Do what?"
"Notice people."
Aiden smiles faintly. "Only when they're interesting."
She huffs a quiet laugh before she can stop herself. "That's vague."
"True," he agrees. "But honest."
Their drinks arrive. The barista sets Elara's cup down without asking, just as she always does. Aiden watches the exchange.
"They know you," he says.
"Yes."
"That matters."
She looks at him then, really looks. "Why?"
He considers. "Because it's rare."
She doesn't argue. She can't.
They talk longer than she expects. About inconsequential things—workdays, favorite corners of the city, places that feel like pauses rather than destinations. He doesn't press. He doesn't pry. He listens with an attention that feels steady, not sharp.
When he finally checks his watch, surprise crosses his face.
"I should go," he says. "I didn't mean to stay this long."
"You didn't," Elara replies, though she's not entirely sure that's true.
He stands, hesitating just enough for her to notice.
"I'll see you around?" he asks.
She nods. "I'm usually here."
"I know," he says, and there's something gentle in the way he means it.
He leaves.
Elara remains seated long after the door closes behind him.
It isn't until she gathers her things to go that she realizes something has shifted—not dramatically, not loudly, but enough to change the way she walks out into the evening.
For the first time in a long while, she doesn't feel like she's simply moving through her life.
She feels… paused.
As if something has noticed her back.