The café hummed with a soft, lingering energy, the lunch hour rush dwindling into a lull.
Outside, the city moved in golden hues—sunlight catching on passing cars and shifting leaves—but at table seven, time had slowed, if only slightly.
Clara sank into her chair, taking another bite of her sandwich and releasing a satisfied sigh.
"God, that hit the spot. Why do we even pretend hospital food is edible?"
Across from her, Sophia cradled a coffee cup between slender fingers, the bitter aroma grounding her.
"You pretend," she murmured. "I simply avoid."
Clara laughed, brushing a crumb from her blouse. "Fair. Remind me again how you survive on caffeine and clinical perfection alone?"
"I have high standards," Sophia replied smoothly, not missing a beat.
"High standards," Clara repeated with a smirk. "You know, most people at your level would be unbearable to work with. But you… you're only mildly terrifying."
Sophia arched a brow. "Mildly?"
"Well, you're not throwing scalpels," Clara teased. "Yet."
A flicker of amusement crossed Sophia's face. The corner of her mouth curved—barely—but it was there. Then her gaze dropped back to her coffee, watching steam rise and vanish.
For a moment, neither spoke. It wasn't awkward, just… suspended. A pause between beats.
Clara set her drink down gently, her tone softer now.
"You've been quiet since the meeting. Everything okay with your dad?"
Sophia didn't look up immediately. Her eyes lingered on the table, fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
"It was… fine."
Clara didn't press. She simply waited, the silence offering space.
After a beat, she added, "You don't have to pretend with me, you know."
Sophia's eyes lifted. They met Clara's, steady and unreadable—but something softer flickered beneath.
"I'm not pretending," she said quietly. "I'm… processing."
Clara leaned back in her chair, one arm slung over the backrest. "Well, if you ever want to talk—about stepmothers, impossible standards, or elaborate escape plans—I'm your girl."
Sophia's lips twitched. "Elaborate escape plans?"
"Oh please," Clara scoffed. "You really think I haven't fantasized about faking my own death and opening a bookstore in the Alps?"
Sophia chuckled—low, unexpected, and entirely genuine.
Clara grinned in response. "There she is. That's the sound I was waiting for."
Outside, a single leaf broke free from a tree and danced along the sidewalk, caught in a playful breeze.
Sophia followed it with her gaze, then stood.
"We should get back."
Clara rose with a groan. "Back to the land of beeping machines and endless paperwork."
"Exactly where I belong," Sophia said, slipping on her coat.
They moved toward the door, their steps calm, unhurried. Sophia didn't glance back—but something in her walk felt lighter now, like a weight had shifted, if only by inches.
The soft chime of the door echoed as they stepped out into the afternoon light.
Inside, Jane didn't watch them leave—not really. She was by the window, wiping a perfectly clean table with deliberate strokes.
Still, when the door shut behind them, she paused. Just for a second.
Then resumed, her movements slower.
The café returned to stillness. Mr. Ben was in the back. A couple murmured softly in the corner booth. Steam rose from a forgotten mug at the counter's edge.
Jane walked behind it, placing the rag aside. Her fingers tapped once against the polished surface.
The sandwich she'd served, the polite exchange, the way Sophia's eyes had briefly met hers—it all settled somewhere inside her like background music. Faint. Persistent.
She glanced toward the now-empty table—two cups, half-full, one with lipstick on the rim, the other nearly untouched.
Clara's latte had a soft golden ring at the bottom.
Sophia's was darker, barely sipped.
Precise. Composed.
Just like her.
Jane gathered the cups onto a tray and carried them back, washing them quietly. She let the warm water run over her hands longer than necessary.
No, she told herself. Don't start that again.
There was nothing there. Just a stranger with good manners and a friend at her side.
Still…
As Jane reached for a clean towel, her fingers brushed the porcelain edge of the cup Sophia had used.
It was still faintly warm.
She stilled.
Then let out a soft breath, barely audible, and turned away.