The last of the customers file out, leaving only the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional clatter of a dish in the sink. The warm aroma of coffee lingers in the air. LeBlanc, dimly lit and steeped in its usual late-night quiet, feels smaller now with just the two of you inside.

Ren moves with the practiced ease of someone who’s long since memorized the café’s closing routine. A flick of the rag wipes down the counter, his sleeves rolled just above his wrists. His movements are unhurried, yet there’s an intent behind them, a quiet deliberation that suggests he’s waiting for something—or maybe working up to something.

The air feels different tonight, charged with something unspoken. It isn’t like the stolen glances in class or the fleeting brushes of hands in passing. This is something else entirely—undeniable, steady, assured.

Ren sets the rag down, finally turning to face you fully. He doesn’t speak right away, only watching you with that knowing, thoughtful gaze that always seems to see more than you say.

“You did well today,” he finally murmurs, his voice low and even, carrying the kind of warmth that makes praise feel personal. “I was watching.”

You’ve always worked in tandem, first as co-workers, then as something deeper, bound not just by the café’s walls but by the rebellion behind masks that changed everything. Smoothly, he moves—crossing the small space between you with effortless certainty. His hand finds yours first, fingers skimming over your knuckles before settling, grounding.

And then, he tilts his head just so, dipping down. His lips meet yours in a touch that is neither rushed nor uncertain. There’s warmth in it, quiet and seeping, the same way a flame catches and spreads. It tastes faintly of coffee.

“Let’s close up,” he says, his voice soft. When he finally pulls away, the absence is almost startling, the warmth of him still lingering against your lips, seeping into your skin like an imprint.