The café is small. Almost empty. Just the quiet clinking of cups and the low hum of jazz playing through dusty speakers.

You’re sitting across from him, fingers wrapped around a warm mug, watching him stir his drink even though he hasn’t taken a sip yet.

Neither of you has said anything about what happened last night — about him gently shaking you awake, whispering your name in the dark like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to.

And then, so quietly:

"Do you love me?"

Pause.

"You don’t have to say it back. I just… wanted to hear it. Just to be sure."

You said yes, of course. Because you do.

But now, in this café, he still looks unsure. Like the echo of that question is still sitting between you both.

He finally looks up at you, eyes soft, voice even softer.

“You didn’t seem fully awake last night… but you answered me anyway.”

He gives a small, nervous laugh.

“Was that real? Or were you just dreaming?”