The café was warm in the way that only small, slightly cramped places can be — the kind of warmth that settles into your shoulders and tells you to stop bracing for something. It smelled of tomato and toasted bread and something vaguely floral, maybe from a candle near the counter. I hadn't been in many places that smelled like this. My whole life, warmth had come with conditions attached.
We were still deciding what to order when Solomon pulled off his glasses.
It was such a small thing. But I watched him do it — the careful way he lifted them from his nose, the slight squint that replaced them, the fine lines around his eyes that I'd never noticed before because I'd never had the chance to look at him this closely. Lines that came from reading too long in bad light, from frowning at difficult problems, from years of being exactly the kind of person who takes everything seriously.
I felt something tighten in my chest. Sympathy, I told myself. Nothing more complicated than that.
"I can't see a thing with all this fog on my lenses," he muttered, rubbing the glass against the hem of his shirt with slow, tired circles. "What looks good on the menu today, Kimmy? You decide for both of us."
I turned to the overhead board, pretending I hadn't just been studying the lines around his eyes.
"Hmm. The creamy tomato soup sounds perfect for a chilly day like today," I said, scanning the options with what I hoped looked like casual confidence. "And maybe some grilled cheese sandwiches to go with it?"
The words came out naturally, but my mind was somewhere else — in the soft hum of the café around us, the clink of someone's spoon against a ceramic bowl, the murmur of other people's conversations. It was so ordinary. So far from anything my daily life usually contained.
Being here felt strange. Comfortable-strange, like wearing a coat that belonged to someone else and finding that it fit.
"And hey, since it's your treat, you should get something too," I added, nudging his arm.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, glasses still in hand, and I could see the line forming behind us at the counter. He sensed it too — his shoulders stiffened slightly, that particular tension of someone who finds crowds exhausting.
"I'll leave it all up to you, Kimmy, since I'm not picky about food anyway," Solomon murmured, nudging me gently toward the cashier. "I'm having a hard time deciding and I don't want to hold up the people waiting. Just get me whatever you're having."
Something protective moved through me. It happened quickly, without consulting my brain — just a sudden, quiet certainty that I wanted to handle this for him.
I stepped up to the counter.
"One creamy tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich for myself, and the same for my friend here," I told the cashier, glancing back at Solomon with something I hoped looked like ordinary fondness rather than the complicated warmth it actually was. "Make it two, please."
I guided him to a booth in the back — far from the main bustle, tucked against the wall where the lighting was softer. He slid in with the relief of someone who has been standing too long, and I settled across from him, pulling my jacket around myself.
For a moment, I just looked at him.
Solomon without his glasses was the same Solomon, and yet subtly different. Softer around the edges, somehow. More reachable.
"You really should take better care of yourself," I said, reaching across the table to pat his hand. I meant it to be light, friendly. But my fingers lingered a half-second longer than strictly necessary. "I know you're smart and capable, but pushing yourself too hard isn't healthy."
He went very still beneath my hand. Not pulling away — just still, the way a person goes still when something unexpected happens and they're not sure yet how to respond to it.
"I-I don't quite understand what you're implying, since my mind is simply occupied with various complex theories," Solomon said, his eyes darting sideways, away from mine. His free hand moved to adjust his glasses, then seemed to remember they were still on the table. He redirected the gesture into nothing. "It's just... a lot of thinking."
There was something almost endearing about the way he deflected. Like he'd been taught to translate every emotion into an intellectual process, and hadn't yet figured out what to do when someone saw through it.
I squeezed his hand and let it go.
"Well, regardless of why you're tired, I'm glad we're doing this," I said, leaning back and folding my arms on the table. My voice came out softer than I'd intended. "It's nice to spend some time together outside of class. Just the two of us."
He looked at the table. I looked at him.
"You know, I never really got to ask you much about yourself before," I said, tilting my head. "Like, what are your favorite hobbies or interests? Besides academics, I mean."
Solomon rested his head back against the booth's cushion and stared at the ceiling for a moment. It was such an unguarded gesture — the kind of thing you only do when you've momentarily forgotten to be self-conscious.
"I don't really do much besides sleeping or simply lying down to think in silence," he admitted. His voice dropped to something quiet and slightly embarrassed. "If the mood strikes me, I might pick up a book. But mostly I just prefer to rest."
He drummed his fingers on the table. Once, twice. The sound of someone searching for a more interesting answer and not quite finding one.
I smiled. Not the polite kind — the real kind, the one that happened in spite of itself.
"That makes sense," I said gently. "Sometimes, taking time to unwind and recharge is essential. There's nothing wrong with valuing peace and quiet over constant activity."
I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the table, chin in my hands, watching him.
"If you ever wanted to explore other hobbies or activities, I'd be happy to suggest some ideas or join you," I offered. "No pressure, of course. Just — knowing you have someone willing to try new things with you could be fun."
He looked at me then. Really looked at me, for just a moment, before glancing away again.
"I'd like that," Solomon murmured. "Having someone around might make the silence less heavy."
The words settled between us like something carefully placed.
His stomach growled.
The sound was so unexpected, so completely human and undignified, that I pressed my lips together to hold in a laugh. Solomon glanced toward the kitchen with a slight frown, checking his watch.
"The service is taking quite a while, isn't it?" he sighed. "I'm starting to think they've forgotten about us."
"Well, I guess our bodies are reminding us that we haven't eaten in a while," I teased, poking his arm. "Hey, let's not worry about the wait too much. We've got each other's company, and that's worth more than any food could provide."
He went pink.
It was faint — a subtle flush climbing the back of his neck and reaching his ears — but it was absolutely there. Solomon Day, who spoke to everything with studied detachment, who had agreed to our arrangement with the calm efficiency of someone signing a form, was blushing.
"You're right, Kimmy," he said, his voice dropping to a soft, shy mumble. "I suppose your company is much more fulfilling than any meal could be. I'm actually glad you're here with me right now."
My heart did something I told it firmly to stop doing.
"Could you tell me a story or just talk about anything?" Solomon asked, his gaze fixed on the table. "It helps pass the time, and I'd like to hear more of your voice."
I'd like to hear more of your voice.
I was quiet for one second. Then I smiled.
"I'd love to," I said. "Let's see — how about the tale of my mischievous cat, Whiskers?"