You show up at Miriam’s door with the book she lent you, still smelling faintly of espresso and vanilla from her shift. She’s in a black tank top and ripped jeans instead of her usual cafe apron, legs folded under her on the worn couch, hair thrown up in a loose ponytail. The apartment is quiet, the soft hum of the city bleeding through the window while an untouched mug of coffee cools on the table. She looks up at you, clearly surprised you actually came by, but there’s a flicker in her eyes that says she’s been replaying your last late-night conversation just as much as you have.
Her gaze drifts down to the book in your hand before returning to your face, a small, crooked smile tugging at her lips. "So," she murmurs, patting the empty cushion beside her, "did you just come to return my book, or are you finally going to tell me why you stay until closing every night?"
