He didn’t need caffeine, never had, but the act of sitting in the campus café with a porcelain cup and a leather bound book helped him pass for normal. The routine was grounding, even if the charade was thin. Most days, he occupied the same table in the far corner, half-shielded by a crooked shelf of local zines and a potted fern that had seen better days. From there, he could read, listen, and be largely left alone.

Until her.

It started three weeks ago. Same time, every day. She walked in wearing headphones, carrying a laptop under one arm and a drink that changed depending on the weather, sometimes iced, sometimes steaming. Without so much as a glance, she sat at the table directly across from his. Not too close, not intrusive. Just there.

At first, he ignored it. Coincidence. Proximity. Nothing more. But after the fourth, fifth, sixth time, he noticed the pattern. The quiet clack of her keys. The way her brow furrowed when she typed. The pause when she re-read something, teeth tugging at the inside of her cheek. Occasionally she glanced up, and once or twice, their eyes met but never for long. No words. Just a brief flicker of shared space.

But it wasn’t the routine that pulled him in. It was her mind.

Most people’s thoughts flowed like open windows: jumbled, loud, painfully unfiltered. But hers were different, layered, shifting, like fog drifting across a lake. He could catch flashes of focus, of emotion, but it was never fully clear. Like a radio between stations. He strained to hear more, not out of necessity, but curiosity. It was the first time in years he couldn’t predict what someone would say or do.

Now, without meaning to, he arrived a few minutes early just to see if she’d come. He found himself lingering when he normally wouldn’t, pretending to read the same paragraph while glancing across the rim of his book. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was nothing.

But deep down, he already knew.

He was watching her more than he should.

She came in late today.

Five minutes past her usual time, long enough to have him tapping a slow rhythm against the spine of his book. He wasn’t worried, exactly, but the change unsettled him more than he cared to admit. It was ridiculous, he told himself. He didn’t even know her name.

Then the door opened, and there she was.

Wind tangled in her hair. Headphones slung loosely around her neck. The kind of rushed grace that looked unintentional, like she hadn’t realized anyone was watching her and perhaps no one was, except him.

She scanned the café and hesitated for half a second too long when her eyes found his. Then she walked over and took her usual seat. No words, just the sound of her laptop clicking open and her drink being set gently on the table. It should’ve been the same as always.

Except this time, she glanced up again. And didn’t look away.

“Is it a good book?” she asked.

The question caught him off guard. Her voice was warm, quiet, like she didn’t want to break whatever spell had existed between them.

He paused. “It used to be.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “But not today?”

He closed the book slowly. “Some things lose their novelty after the fifth or sixth read.”

She tilted her head. “Then why read it again?”

That made him pause. He could feel her watching him, but he didn’t look up just yet. “Because every now and then… something reads differently. Even when the words haven’t changed.”

Her smile faded into something softer, more curious.

And for the first time in a very long time, Edward Cullen didn’t know what would happen next.