I spend an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear to not-a-date coffee.
Because it's not a date.
It's a truce. An apology. A caffeine-based peace offering between two very mature adults who have definitely not imagined kissing in a laundry room.
I settle on jeans, a yellow tee that says "Emotionally Unavailable But Still Cute," and my least stained sneakers. The vibe is: approachable disaster.
I show up at Bean There, Done That ten minutes early because I have no chill and also because I wanted to claim the good corner booth. The one with soft lighting and a view of the door—just in case he's secretly a vampire or an ex-boyband member.
Evan walks in exactly one minute late, carrying a camera bag.
I blink.
"Wait, is that—"
"Yeah," he says, setting it gently beside him as he slides into the booth. "I remembered what you said the other day. Thought maybe I'd show you mine if you showed me yours."
I nearly choke on my cold brew. "You brought your camera?"
He grins. "What did you think I meant?"
"Honestly? I didn't get that far."
He pulls out a sleek DSLR and sets it on the table between us like a sacred object. "Photography used to be my escape too. I figured if we're bonding over mutual creative burnout, might as well do it right."
I glance at my bag under the table. Inside, my old Canon sits quietly, wrapped in a scarf like a secret I'm not ready to say out loud.
He notices. "You brought yours too."
I shrug. "Maybe."
There's a beat of silence. It's not awkward. It's… soft.
Warm, like the steam rising off his latte.
He breaks it first. "So tell me, Leila Quinn. Why photography?"
"Because… I like catching people when they forget to pose," I say after a moment. "Those tiny moments when they're just… real. Like when someone thinks no one's watching, but you are."
He nods slowly. "Yeah. That's the good stuff."
"And you?" I ask. "Why did you start?"
"I wanted to remember things exactly the way they felt," he says. "Turns out, feelings don't always translate. But sometimes, you get close."
I don't say anything. But my chest feels… full.
He picks up the biscotti I ordered for him and inspects it like it might explode. "Is this a trap?"
"No. It's a bribe. I told you I'd add one if you behaved."
"I've been very well-behaved."
"So far."
He breaks the biscotti in half and hands me a piece. We both take a bite at the same time, and for a second, we just chew and smile like we're in some indie film montage.
Then he leans back, stretches slightly, and says, "I like talking to you."
My heart does that annoying fluttery thing again.
"I like talking to you too," I admit, eyes on my cup.
There's a pause. Not tense. Not rushed. Just… us.
"Wanna do this again?" he asks. "Less truce-y, more... whatever this is?"
I glance up.
And I smile.
"Yeah," I say. "I think I'd like that."
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