The following afternoon the café was busier than usual, filled with the low hum of conversations and the rhythmic tapping of keyboards. Zen had almost convinced herself that she would not see him again, that his presence the previous day had been nothing more than a fleeting twist of coincidence. Yet when the door opened and Peter walked in, a strange rush of heat stirred inside her chest. He looked the same as before, quiet and detached, his presence cutting through the crowded space without effort. Zen tried to focus on her tasks, but she could not shake the weight of his gaze that lingered even when he seemed to be looking elsewhere. She told herself it was foolish to care, but some unseen force pushed her forward, whispering that silence would not end the pull she felt.
When he approached the counter this time, Zen did not hide behind the safety of small talk. She straightened her shoulders, placed her hands firmly on the polished surface, and said, "You were here yesterday too." Her tone was casual, but her heart pounded harder than she wanted to admit. Peter's dark eyes lifted to hers, steady and unreadable, and for a moment she thought he might simply ignore her. Instead, his reply came quiet but edged, "Is that a problem?" The sharpness startled her, though she refused to retreat. "No," she said evenly, a faint smile tugging at her lips, "just an observation." He gave no reaction, no softening of his gaze, but something in the air between them shifted. It was not warmth, but it was not indifference either. It was something caught in between, and Zen found herself unwilling to let it slip away so quickly.
She leaned a little closer, lowering her voice so that only he could hear. "You are not the easiest person to read, you know." It was a bold remark, one she might not have dared with anyone else, but the words fell before she could stop them. Peter's expression remained impassive, though his fingers curled slightly against the counter as though holding back words he would not let free. "People waste too much time trying to read others," he said at last, his voice low and unbending. "It is better to stay quiet." Zen tilted her head, studying him, feeling both the sting of his coldness and the strange thrill it sparked. She should have ended the exchange there, turned away and let him fade into the crowd, yet she could not. Something about his detachment drew her in, a challenge she felt compelled to face.
For the first time since they had crossed paths, Zen saw not only the walls Peter had built but also the faint shadows behind them. His coldness was not cruelty, it was armor. And though his words were sharp, there was a weight to them that carried more than disdain. She slid his black coffee toward him and let a small, genuine smile break through her restraint. "Quiet does not always mean peace," she said softly, surprising even herself. Peter held her gaze for a long moment, his eyes searching hers as if uncertain whether to dismiss her or to listen. In the end, he took the cup, gave a slight nod, and walked to his usual seat. It was not a victory, not a conversation that promised warmth, but it was a beginning. The cold had not vanished, yet the intrigue remained, burning quietly between them like the flicker of a flame too stubborn to die out.