Anna stepped out of the café with her head slightly lowered.
The door closed behind her, cutting off the amber glow inside. The street greeted her at once—engines idling too close to the curb, voices overlapping, someone laughing too loudly down the block. She tightened her grip on her bag and walked a few steps before slowing, as if the ground beneath her had not quite settled.
She didn't look back.
At the corner, she paused, pretending to check her phone. The screen was dark. She slipped it back into her pocket and crossed the street when the light changed, her steps light and uneven, as though part of her was still seated at the table she had just left.
Behind the glass, he remained where he was.
For a moment, his expression stayed as it had been—soft, attentive, almost indulgent—as he watched her move away, her figure briefly framed by passing cars and reflections. Then, as she disappeared into the crowd, the warmth on his face eased, not into coldness, but into something quieter and more precise.
He reached for his cup, took a final sip, and set it down carefully. The porcelain barely made a sound. His fingers lingered at the rim, still, deliberate.
He lifted his hand slightly.
The space around him responded.
A man at the next table folded his newspaper and stood. Another, who had been scrolling on a phone, slipped it into his pocket and straightened his jacket. Someone near the counter stepped aside, already moving out of the way. Chairs shifted without scraping. No voices rose.
Nothing about the café felt interrupted.
It simply rearranged itself.
The assistant approached, stopping just close enough to hear.
"New money," he said quietly, adjusting the cuff at his wrist. "They should understand the weight of the invitation."
"Yes," the assistant replied.
"They sent a replacement," he went on, his gaze drifting briefly toward the door Anna had exited through, then away. "That suggests hesitation."
"A misunderstanding?" the assistant offered.
He glanced up, calm and unreadable.
"They were included because I insisted on a broader selection," he said. "At ... age."
The word sat there, untouched.
"If alliances trouble them," he said, "they should say so plainly."
The assistant inclined his head.
"She's young," the man went on. "Unprepared. Which makes sense."
A pause followed.
He said after a moment. "We're not anymore."
The assistant remained silent.
"They were included because I insisted on a broader selection," he continued, picking up his coat. "At my age."
The word settled between them, untouched.
"Keep Mia close," he said. "Available. Useful."
"Supportive," the assistant said.
"For now," he replied.
He slipped on his coat and walked out. The others followed at measured distances, already anticipating doors, corners, traffic.
Within minutes, the café returned to its gentle hum.
Anna unlocked her apartment door too quickly, the keys clinking louder than usual.
She stepped inside, closed the door, and leaned back against it for a brief moment, breathing out slowly. The apartment smelled faintly of detergent and leftover food from somewhere down the hall.
She kicked off her shoes.
Her bag slid from her shoulder onto the floor. She bent to pick it up, hesitated, then carried it into the bedroom instead. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she reached for her phone.
Nothing.
She set it down beside her, palms pressing into the mattress. The quiet felt heavier now.
She stood and went to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, watched the surface tremble, then left it untouched on the counter. Her reflection in the dark window startled her—eyes bright, cheeks warm, as if she had just come in from the cold.
Her phone buzzed.
She froze.
A message from a group chat. Something trivial.
She laughed softly at herself and shook her head.
He said he'd take his time.
She showered, letting the water run longer than usual. When she stepped out, she checked her phone before drying her hair.
Still nothing.
She lay down with the phone resting on her chest, fingers curled loosely around it. The ceiling fan turned slowly above her, each rotation marking time she tried not to count.
She turned onto her side. Then back again.
Sleep came late, and lightly.
The knock the next morning was firm and controlled.
Anna pulled on a sweater and padded to the door, hair still damp, heart already quickening.
When she opened it, the hallway filled with white and pale pink.
The delivery man maneuvered the flowers inside—roses, lilies, something softer woven between them. The arrangement was wide and deliberate, taller than the table she would later place it on. The scent followed him in, sweet and dense.
"Signature, please."
Her hand trembled as she signed.
The door closed. The apartment felt suddenly smaller.
She stood there for a moment, surrounded by petals and light, then leaned closer to read the card.
Her name, written neatly.
Good morning.
Her phone lay beside the vase.
No message.
She smiled anyway.
Mia called before noon.
"I was just thinking about you," Mia said, her voice bright and unhurried. "How was last night?"
Anna sat at the table, the flowers between her and the window. "It was… nice."
Mia laughed softly. "I knew it would be."
"He didn't text," Anna added quickly. "Not yet."
"Of course not," Mia said easily. "Men like that prefer gestures."
Anna's gaze drifted back to the flowers.
"They're beautiful," she said.
"I'm glad," Mia replied. "If you need help—with timing, with expectations—just tell me."
"That might be good," Anna said.
"I'll stay close," Mia said. "Just to support you."
After the call ended, Anna moved the flowers closer to the window. Sunlight caught on the petals, turning their edges translucent. She adjusted the vase once, then again, until it sat just right.
She didn't notice how the waiting softened her.
How the silence made the gesture feel larger.
How each small reassurance settled into place.
The threads were fine, almost invisible.
But together, they began to hold.