Chapter 1 #2
The children's section is chaos. Kids everywhere, parents looking exhausted, and Miss Glitterbomb in full regalia: purple wig, sequined dress that could probably be seen from space, and heels that violate several laws of physics.
"Devin, darling!" She swoops over to grab her coffee. "You absolute lifesaver. How's the café treating you?"
"Good," I manage. "Really good."
"Robin says you're a natural. High praise from him. He's got standards higher than my wigs." She takes a sip and sighs dramatically. "Perfect. You even got the glitter distribution right."
Toby waves from where he's managing crowd control, wearing a cardigan with tiny coffee cups all over it. These people and their themed clothing.
I escape back to the café, taking the long way around to avoid Silas's table.
The afternoon settles into a rhythm. Customers come and go, I make drinks, Robin experiments with some new recipe involving lavender and honey.
Normal. Safe. The kind of afternoon where I can almost forget the clock ticking down, the sixty days, the math I do every night before I sleep.
Rent prices, deposit requirements, the gap between what I have and what I need.
At three o'clock, Silas stands up.
I very carefully don't watch him walk to the counter. Very carefully keep organizing the syrups that are already organized.
"Thanks for the coffee," he says, setting his empty mug on the counter.
"No problem." I take the mug, proud that my hands stay steady. "How was it?"
"Good. Really good." He pauses, and I can feel him looking at me. "The scones too."
Is he being weird about the note? Should I apologize for the note?
"That's... good," I manage.
He nods, turns to go, then stops. "You work every day?"
"Thursday through Monday. Noon to six."
"Good to know."
He leaves, and I definitely don't watch him go. Definitely don't notice how he walks with that quiet confidence, or how he holds doors open for people, or how he carefully tucks his book under his arm to protect it from the drizzle that's started outside.
"So," Robin says, appearing beside me like some kind of matchmaking ninja. "That went well."
"Nothing went. Nothing happened."
"He asked when you work."
"He was being polite."
"Dev." Robin leans against the counter, studying me. "How long have you been watching him in the library?"
My face burns. "I haven't been watching —"
"You literally know his reading schedule."
"I just... notice things."
"Uh-huh. And what things have you noticed about tall, dark, and brooding over there?"
I shouldn't answer. But Robin's looking at me with this expression that's kind and interested and it's been so long since anyone wanted to know what I think about anything.
"He reads fantasy but the good stuff, no quick airport books.
He's careful with books, never breaks the spines.
He reads fast but thoroughly, probably retains everything.
He's left-handed but was trained to be ambidextrous, you can see it in how he switches hands when taking notes.
He —" I stop because Robin's grinning. "What? "
"You've got it bad."
"I don't have anything. I just notice things."
"Sure. And I just casually notice that Vaughn's favorite coffee changes based on his mood, and that he drums his fingers when he's thinking, and that he gets this tiny smile when — you know what, we're not talking about me.
" Robin shakes his head. "Thursday through Monday, you're here.
And mysteriously, I bet Silas is going to start needing a lot more coffee. "
"He's not — he wouldn't —"
"Dev, honey, he kept your note."
"As a bookmark!"
"As a bookmark," Robin agrees. "Instead of literally any other piece of paper in existence. Definitely no significance there."
I want to argue, but a customer comes in wanting something complicated with oat milk and sugar-free vanilla, and by the time I'm done, Robin's moved on to terrorizing his latest batch of experimental cookies.
The rest of my shift passes quietly. At six, I clean everything twice, set up for tomorrow, and gather my things. Just my jacket and the book I'm reading, The Shadow of What Was Lost. Good fantasy, even if the magic system needs another pass.
"You heading out?" Robin asks, boxing up leftover pastries. "Want these? They'll just go stale overnight."
He always offers. Always acts like it's no big deal.
A bag of fancy pastries that would cost thirty dollars easy, handed over like it's nothing.
Apricot frangipane, blueberry lemon scones, a slice of the pear galette that didn't make the display case.
I know what he's doing. I also know I'm in no position to turn it down.
"Thanks," I say, taking the bag even though it makes me feel like charity.
"You staying to read?"
"For a bit."
"Security does rounds at nine-thirty now. Just so you know."
Because of course he's noticed I stay late. Probably noticed I show up early too. Robin notices everything, files it away behind that cheerful exterior.
"Thanks," I say again.
He waves me off, already planning tomorrow's menu based on whatever chaos his experiments created today.
I find my usual spot in the back of the reference section.
Good light, comfortable chair, completely hidden from the main areas.
Pull out my book, settle the pastry bag beside me for later.
The library's quiet now, just the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant keyboard clicking from whoever's manning the front desk.
At nine twenty-five, I pack up and head for the exit.
The rain's steadier now, and I pull my hood up for the eight-block walk to the shelter.
Could take the bus, but that costs money I need to save.
Sixty more days. The studio on Birch Street is $650 a month, first and last plus deposit.
I've got eleven hundred saved. I need another eight-fifty, minimum, to feel safe.
Sixty days to earn what I can, spend as little as possible, and pray the apartment's still available when I get there.
As I pass the fiction section, movement catches my eye. There, in his usual corner, is Silas. Still reading. The library closed to the public an hour ago, but there he is.
He looks up as I pass, gives me a small nod.
I nod back, keep walking even though my brain's screaming questions. How is he still here? Does he know someone who works here? Is he friends with security?
But those are questions for people who actually talk to each other, not for weird baristas who leave notes in pastry boxes.
* * *
The shelter's crowded tonight. Thursday always is, something about the weekend approaching makes more kids show up.
I navigate through the common room, dodging a heated argument about whose turn it is on the Xbox, and climb to the third floor where the "aging out" kids stay.
We get actual rooms up here, tiny and shared, but better than the open dorms below.
My roommate Tyler is already asleep, snoring into his pillow. I move quietly, stashing the pastries in our mini-fridge for tomorrow, changing into sleep clothes in the dark. My bed creaks when I sit, but Tyler doesn't stir.
I pull out my phone, the ancient thing that barely holds a charge, and open my library app. Put Dragonflight on hold, just in case. Just in case Silas actually takes my recommendation and I need to reread it to remember details. Just in case he wants to talk about it.
Just in case.
The rain gets heavier, drumming against the window. Somewhere down the hall, someone's playing music too loud. Tyler rolls over, mutters something in his sleep.
I think about Silas keeping my note. Using it as a bookmark. Reading after closing time in the library like he belongs there, like the rules don't apply to him.
Tomorrow's Friday. He asked when I work.
Maybe he'll come back.
Maybe I'll be brave enough to say actual words to him.
Maybe.
I close my eyes and listen to the rain, trying not to hope too hard. Hope's dangerous when you're twenty and living in a shelter and the only good thing in your day is a quiet man who reads fantasy novels and drinks his coffee black.
But the note's still in his book, marking his place.
That has to mean something.
Right?