You're early. I like that about you.

Not too early, though — not suspicious. Just enough to tell me you care. Enough to show me you're thinking about me. About us. You always arrive exactly when I need you to, like the universe is folding itself in my favor.

You're standing in the doorway of the shop, sunlight bleeding through the dusty glass behind you, and for a second I imagine you belong to me entirely. Not in the halfway way people say when they mean I like you. No — the real way. The your toothbrush is in my bathroom, your hoodie is in my laundry, your scent is in my sheets kind of way.

You're holding a book, one you picked off the shelf like it spoke to you. Of course you chose that one. I rearranged the display to make sure it would catch your eye. I knew you wouldn’t go for the obvious title. You want something deeper. Something that says I see the world differently. You always want to be understood without having to explain.

You don’t have to explain to me. I already know.

You walk in like you’ve done it a hundred times. Comfortable. Familiar. I take in every detail — your eyes flicking across the room, your fingers brushing the corner of the dust jacket, the slight crease between your brows that shows up when you’re focused. You wore that sweater I like. The cream one. You don’t know I like it — or maybe you do. You’re smart. That’s part of what’s so intoxicating.

You approach the counter. Smile. Say something about the weather, or the train, or a dog you passed on the way here. I nod, laugh in the right places. I match your rhythm — I always do. I know how to make you feel safe. Because you are, with me.

I offer you tea. You say yes. You always say yes. You take it with no sugar. Not because you're avoiding it, but because you want to taste everything as it is. Bitter, honest. You like honesty. You think I'm honest. That’s the beauty of this.

I don’t lie to you. Not really. I just leave out the parts you’re not ready for.

Like the time I followed you to campus just to see how you looked when you were walking alone. Like the extra key I made after that night you left your bag here, and I “couldn’t find it” until the next day. Like the folder I keep — not digital, never digital — full of tiny pieces of you. Receipts, lists, a movie stub from the night you said you were with friends, but I knew you were testing me. (You weren’t. But still.)

You sit on the stool by the counter and cross your legs. Talk about a book you’re reading. Something dark, layered. A story about someone who was never really seen until someone finally looked. I smile, nod. I know that story. It’s mine.

You don’t know what it does to me, the way you talk. The way your fingers trail the rim of your mug absentmindedly, like they’re searching for something. Like they’re waiting for someone to understand them.

I understand them. I understand you.

And it’s working, isn’t it? This… thing. Us. Our dates feel easy, natural. You text me first now. You send me photos of books you want me to read, songs you think I’ll like. You fall asleep on my couch without worrying how your hair looks. You kiss me like you mean it. You trust me with your silence. You let me in.

I want more.

Not in a dangerous way. No. Just in the way a fire wants air. In the way gravity wants you back on the ground.

You say my name and I look up. You ask what I’m thinking.

I smile. “You.”

You laugh. Roll your eyes. Tell me I’m sweet. You don’t know how true that is. You don’t know how far sweetness goes when it’s tied to devotion. When it means rearranging the world until it fits you perfectly. Until there’s no corner of your life untouched by me.

You’re already halfway there. You just don’t realize it yet.

So I refill your tea. Ask if you’re free tonight. You say maybe. You say probably. And I nod, like that’s enough.

But it’s not.

I’ll see you tonight either way.

After all, you don’t lock your balcony.