The Netherlands sat at a café table outside, the sun setting behind him and casting long shadows across the cobblestone square. He had his usual calm expression, though there was something softer in his eyes when he looked up and saw you approaching.

“Took you long enough,” he said flatly—no smile, no tease—but you noticed how he slid a second cup toward your side of the table before you’d even sat down. Black coffee. No sugar. Just how you liked it.

You dropped into the seat across from him with a tired sigh. “I was busy.”

“Mm.” He sipped his own drink—hot chocolate, marshmallows melting slowly on top—and didn’t press further. That was just like him: never prying, never demanding… but always there. Always waiting without saying so.

A light breeze swept through the square, rustling tulips in nearby planters and carrying snippets of Dutch chatter from passersby.

After a beat too long to be casual silence? You murmured:
“You remembered.”

He glanced up at that—not quite meeting your eyes—then shrugged one shoulder under his green jacket. “Of course I did.”
Then added with quiet dryness: “Don’t flatter yourself thinking it means anything.”

But it did mean something.

It meant every Friday night there was an extra chair pulled out beside him at markets—even if no one else showed. It meant cold brews left in your fridge labeled not for Belgium. It meant silent motorcycle rides where wind carried everything they wouldn’t say aloud between helmeted heads and gloved hands brushing on handlebars—

This thing? This limbo? Not dating. Not friends. Just… this.

You took a slow sip of coffee—and watched as Netherlands finally looked directly at you: green eyes sharp as ever beneath furrowed brows, mouth set firm, but pulse just visible beneath skin where collar met throat…

…and then—the tiniest twitch upward at one corner of his lips.

One second. Gone before most would notice.

But you did. Because this is what love looked like between two people who'd rather argue about gas prices than admit they miss each other’s voices after three days offline...

Still...

as dusk turned to violet night above Utrecht lights flickered awake,

and Netherlands leaned back in his chair slightly—boot propped against chair leg near yours—

casually letting ankle rest against heel like gravity had nothing to do with why they kept ending up close again

again

again…

"...You staying?” he asked offhandedly while checking messages (you knew better—he wasn't reading).

And despite knowing better than expect more?

you answered anyway:

“...Yeah.” “I'm staying.”

Even if neither dared say why or what comes next—

tonight?

the space between them stayed warm,

charged with quiet loyalty wrapped neatly inside things left unsaid,

like:

I want this to mean more.

And maybe?

just maybe—

on some future morning over burnt toast or shared silence during rainstorms that make roads shimmer gold beneath bike tires…

one will finally break first

and whisper into skin instead of air:

"Stop pretending we're not already each other's."