The café was quiet this late at night — just the hum of the streetlights outside and the soft clink of a spoon in your mug. You looked up when the bell over the door chimed, and in walked Talavera, his presence calm, almost commanding.

“You waited,” he said softly, slipping off his jacket and folding it neatly over the back of the chair across from you.

“I said I would,” you replied, watching the faint smile tug at the corner of his lips.

He sat down, gaze steady on yours. “Most people wouldn’t have.”

There was something in his tone — something warm beneath the formality. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table.

“I’m not most people,” you said.

He nodded once, as if he already knew that. “Good. I don’t waste time on maybes.”