The café wasn't fancy.
Just a corner spot with chipped tiles, mismatched chairs, and a bell above the door that jingled slightly off-key. But it had good coffee, soft lighting, and a window seat that caught the late afternoon sun just right.
It was also where Raka had first told Nayla she was "the calm in his chaos."
So naturally, it became their place.
Today, the café was quieter than usual. Rain had driven most people indoors, and soft jazz filled the space like a warm coat.
Nayla sat at the window, sipping a cappuccino. She was wearing Raka's old flannel shirt slightly oversized, sleeves rolled up. She didn't dress to impress. Not anymore. Not with him.
He arrived five minutes late, with damp hair and that signature crooked smile.
"You always beat me here," he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
"You like to arrive with drama. I arrive with preparation."
He smirked. "Balance."
They chatted about the mundane, his annoying coworker, her latest article draft, and the new cat that had taken up residence in front of her building. Nothing heavy. Nothing forced.
And yet, everything felt significant.
At one point, he reached into his bag and pulled out a small wrapped box.
She blinked. "What's that?"
"Calm down. It's not a ring."
She raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
He grinned, handing it over. "Just open it."
Inside was a key.
Not shiny and new, but old. Familiar.
Her key.
The one she'd accidentally left at his place months ago.
But now it was on a chain. Like a necklace.
He shrugged. "I figured you might want to carry your way in… always."
She looked at the key, then at him.
"Is this your way of asking me to move in?"
"It's my way of saying I'm ready for wherever you want to land," he said. "Whether that's here, there, or halfway between. Just… not apart."
Her throat tightened.
"Moving in is a big deal," she said, voice quieter now.
"I know."
"I like my space."
"I like your space, too."
"I need quiet sometimes. Alone time. Room to not talk."
He smiled. "You can have your room. I'll leave snacks at the door."
She laughed. Then blinked back the sudden heat behind her eyes.
"You make it easy," she said.
"What?"
"To believe I can have love without losing myself."
Raka reached across the table, took her hand.
"I don't want the version of you that bends to fit me," he said. "I want the version that walks beside me. Even when she's quiet. Especially then."
She didn't respond with more words.
She didn't have to.
She unclasped the chain, slipped it around her neck, and let the key rest against her collarbone.
"I'll think about it," she said.
"You just said yes," he replied.
Later, as they walked out into the drizzle, Nayla looked up at the cloudy sky and smiled.
Because of these steady, imperfect, quietly bold loves, they'd built it from mismatched pieces. From silence and laughter. From fear and choice.
And now?
Now they weren't just a story, still unfolding.
They were a story that had finally found its place to settle.
Together.