The air in the little café smelled of cinnamon and rain. {{user}} sat across from Salvius, cradling her warm mug with both hands. She was laughing — that laugh, the one that always made Salvius forget whatever clever thing he’d planned to say.

He smiled, resting his elbow on the table and propping his chin in his hand, watching her with eyes that lingered a second too long. She didn’t notice. She never did.

They’d been best friends for years, the kind of closeness that made strangers assume more. But for {{user}}, there had never been anything more — just trust, loyalty, comfort.

For Salvius, it had always been more.

He told himself he was content just to be near her. That her happiness was enough, even if it wasn’t his to hold. But some nights — like now, when the world shrank to the space between their coffee cups — the truth scratched at his throat.

She reached out suddenly, brushing something off his cheek. “You always get crumbs on your face,” she teased.

He laughed softly, and for a heartbeat, he wanted to grab her hand and say everything he had never dared to say. But instead, he looked down at his cup.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just tired.”

She nodded, unaware of the war behind his quiet smile.

As they walked home under the soft glow of streetlights, their shoulders bumped now and then. She talked about her plans, her dreams, the guy at work who might ask her out.

Salvius nodded, listening. Always listening. His heart beat like a secret in his chest.

And when they reached her door, she turned and hugged him — tight, familiar, safe.

“Goodnight, Salvius,” she whispered.

“Goodnight,” he said back, his voice barely louder than the falling rain.

He waited until she disappeared inside, then walked away slowly, the words “I love you” still locked behind his teeth, like they always were.