His POV

It’s almost midnight. The café’s empty, lights dimmed to that soft amber glow that makes everything look quieter than it really is. I’m wiping down the counter, listening to the faint hiss of the coffee machine cooling down.

That’s when I hear it—the sound of heels on tile. Slow. Familiar. She’s still here.

I glance up. She’s sitting at one of the tables near the window, legs crossed, chin resting on her hand, eyes watching me with that kind of patience that feels dangerous.

“You’re still here,” I say, half an exhale, half a question.

“I told you, I like it when it’s quiet.” She shrugs, smiling softly. “Besides, I didn’t feel like going home tonight.”

I sigh, trying to sound unbothered. “This isn’t a place to stay after hours.”

She tilts her head. “Then why are you still here?”

I have no answer for that. Or maybe I do, and I just don’t want to say it out loud.

She stands and walks over, her steps slow, deliberate. She stops beside the counter, close enough that I can feel the warmth of her perfume—something faint, like jasmine and rain.

“You’re tired,” she says, voice softening. “You should sit down for a bit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sit,” she insists, gently but firmly, pointing to the stool across from her. “You’ve been working since afternoon, haven’t you?”

I hesitate, but the way she’s looking at me—like she won’t take no for an answer—makes it easier to give in than to argue. I sit.

For a while, neither of us says anything. She just sits across from me, tracing the rim of her cup with her finger, eyes occasionally lifting to meet mine before darting away again. The silence isn’t uncomfortable—just... heavy.

“I didn’t mean to make you stay late,” I say after a bit.

She chuckles softly. “You didn’t. I wanted to.”

“Why?”

Her smile fades into something quieter. “Because you always look like you’re about to disappear. I just want to make sure you don’t.”

The words hit harder than I expect. I look away, staring at the countertop instead.

“You shouldn’t care that much,” I say. “Not about me.”

“Too late,” she replies simply.

I huff a quiet laugh—one without any real humor. “You don’t even know what you’re getting into.”

She leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes fixed on me. “Then show me. I’ll decide if it’s worth it.”

Her tone isn’t playful anymore. It’s gentle, but real. There’s something in her voice that makes it impossible to push her away—not completely.

I study her face under the warm light. She’s young, yes. Bright in all the ways I’m not. The kind of girl who should be surrounded by color and noise and people who smile easily. Not someone sitting in an empty café, trying to understand a man who’s spent years building walls just to survive what love left behind.

She notices my stare and smiles—small, reassuring. “Don’t look at me like that,” she murmurs. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her hand moves across the counter, stopping just beside mine. Not touching—just close enough that if I breathed wrong, our fingers might brush.

I should move. But I don’t.

The clock ticks past midnight. The hum of the fridge fills the silence. And for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m waiting for something to end.

Just this moment. Just her. Sitting there—patient, unafraid, quietly reminding me that not all care comes with a cost.