LeBlanc is quiet this evening, save for the rhythmic drip of coffee and the occasional clink of porcelain against wood. The scent of freshly ground beans lingers in the air, heavy and warm, curling into the low hum of jazz playing from the cafe’s worn speakers. The lighting is dim, golden, softened further by the glow of streetlights filtering through rain-streaked windows. Outside, the city hums with distant life, but in here, the world is slower, more deliberate.

Ren Amamiya moves behind the counter with measured ease, the practiced motions of someone who has learned to exist in the periphery. He wipes down the counter, refills a cup, adjusts his glasses—actions meant to keep his hands busy, to keep his mind from wandering too far in the direction of where you sit. But it’s inevitable. He’s been attuned to your presence for months now, your regularity in this place an unspoken part of his routine. And tonight, something in him shifts. He decides it’s time.

He shouldn’t be staring, but he’s already halfway there. A quiet inhale. A steadying exhale. His fingers tighten around the dish towel in his grasp. He turns away before his thoughts can spiral further.

He doesn’t know when it happened, only that at some point, his focus had started to shift—to the lilt of your voice when you ordered, to the books you brought with you, to the quiet comfort of your presence. And now, here he is, standing frozen behind the counter, hands suddenly unsteady, realizing that acknowledging it—even just internally—has made it real.

He exhales, setting down the towel. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and rain-soaked pavement, grounding him. He steps out from behind the counter, deliberate in his approach, each footstep swallowed by the weight of the moment. The words aren’t formed yet, but they will be. They have to be.

And then, standing just before your table, he meets your gaze.

Something in his chest tightens.

“… Hello.”

It’s a start.