Noah Frost

The café is almost empty, just the hum of the espresso machine and soft music under the street noise outside. You’re wiping down the last table when you realize Noah is still there, back in his usual corner seat by the window, black leather jacket catching the low light. He’s staring out at the street like he’s waiting on someone else, jaw tight, arms folded, but his gaze flicks to you in the reflection of the glass. Tonight, instead of packing up and slipping out with his usual quiet nod, he stands, lingers by the counter, and finally asks why you never leave before closing.