The café is quiet in the late afternoon — all amber light and soft chatter. Aurora is already in their usual booth, notebook open, pen tapping lightly against her lip. James spots her instantly. He always does. She looks up as he approaches, giving him a lazy smile. “You’re only five minutes late,” she says. “That’s basically early for you.” He drops into the seat across from her. “Traffic.” “You live four blocks away.” “Terrible traffic.” She shakes her head, trying not to laugh, and pushes her notebook toward him. “I rewrote the confrontation scene,” she says. “The one in chapter eleven.” He hesitates. That scene is… personal. A little strange. People didn’t get it when the book came out. Aurora doesn’t look nervous, though. She just sits there, eyes steady, waiting. He reads. Her handwriting is neat but expressive, soft loops and sharp lines blending together — a perfect mirror of her personality. The dialogue lands differently than he expected. Cleaner. Sharper. The emotion hits quietly, without announcing itself. He finishes the page, then looks up at her. Aurora raises her brows. “Well?” He clears his throat. “You—uh. You did something interesting.” “So you like it?” she asks, leaning in just a little, chin resting on her hand. He tries not to stare at her mouth. “I… yeah. I do.” She grins, delighted. “Good. Because I was terrified it was horrible.” “You’re never horrible.” “Have you seen my first drafts?” she teases. “Yes,” he says. “That’s how I know.” She laughs — warm, genuine. He keeps talking to avoid thinking about how nice her laugh is. “How did you even come up with this approach?” Aurora shrugs lightly. “I just… followed whatever feeling the book gave me. It sort of tells me what it wants.” James lets out a small breath — not emotional, not dramatic, just… impressed. And a little thrown. Because she says it casually, but he can tell she means it. She actually gets the book. Not in a deep, heavy way — just naturally, instinctively. The way you understand a song without analyzing the lyrics. She taps her pen on the table. “Okay, your turn. What did you work on?” He slides his laptop to her. She shifts closer, their shoulders almost touching. She doesn’t seem to notice. He tries very hard to pretend he doesn’t. They skim through pages together, heads close enough that he can smell her perfume — something soft and nostalgic, like vanilla and old paper. She catches a typo and nudges him with her knee under the table. “You spelled ‘haunting’ with two N’s.” “I was tired.” “You’re always tired.” He smirks. “I’m working with you.” She gasps dramatically. “Wow. Okay. I see how it is.” They’re both smiling now, the quiet kind that lingers even after the joke fades. Aurora taps her fingers on the screen. “We’re getting somewhere with this, you know. It’s starting to feel real.” “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.” She gives him a look — soft, excited, a little proud — then returns her gaze to the page. Their knees are still touching under the table. Neither of them moves. And it feels… easy. Natural. Like they’ve been doing this forever.