The bell tower struck five, each chime rippling across the narrow stone alleys like echoes from a time that refused to disappear. Cobblestones, slick with the day's drizzle, gleamed under soft, amber streetlamps. Ivy clung stubbornly to old brick walls. Smoke curled from iron chimneys. And nestled at the corner of Rue de la Fontaine and Vermeerstraat stood a café that smelled of roasted beans and quiet conversations — the kind of place no tourist guide ever mentioned, but where memories lived forever.
Emma pushed open its wooden door with one hand, her other gripping a satchel stuffed with dog-eared books and half-broken pens. She stepped into warmth. The familiar bell above the door jingled softly.
Andrew was already there. Always was.
He sat in their usual spot by the window, where the glass fogged with breath and the outside world looked like a painting. His dark sweater matched the mood of the day, and his book — something thick and old and loved — lay open beside two ceramic mugs, both steaming gently.
"You're late," he said as she approached, not lifting his eyes from the page.
Emma smiled and unwrapped her scarf with theatrical flair. "I'm not late. I'm dramatic. There's a difference."
Now he looked up — that same slow, deliberate glance he always gave her. Not intense, not rehearsed. Just... present. His smile was crooked in a way that made people feel like he was always about to say something clever, even if he never did.
"I hope that's your excuse for tomorrow too. I'm not covering for you in lectures again."
"You will," she replied breezily, dropping into the chair across from him. She reached for the cup on the right — her cup. Hazelnut, one sugar, a splash of milk. "You always do."
He didn't argue.
They sat in silence for a moment, the kind of silence that doesn't press or strain. It simply existed between them like a shared coat on a cold day. Outside, students hurried past in boots and long coats, their laughter trailing behind them like smoke. The street lamps cast golden pools of light that made everything look warmer than it was.
Inside, the café murmured around them — a couple whispering in Italian, a professor grading papers in a corner, a barista humming faintly to herself behind the counter. The espresso machine hissed softly, like it, too, knew how to be gentle.
Emma blew on her coffee and leaned back in her chair. "Remind me why we chose literature over law or medicine or anything with actual career prospects?"
Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Speak for yourself. I plan to become a starving poet in the French countryside. Ideally in a cottage that leaks."
"Ah, romance," she sighed. "What a luxury."
He smiled but didn't respond.
She looked out the window, her eyes following a bird darting between rooftops. "Do you ever wonder if this is it? Like... these are the best years, and we don't even realize it yet?"
Andrew watched her, not the window. "I think these are the best years because we don't realize it yet."
She didn't answer. Just sipped her coffee and let the warmth settle into her fingers.
After a moment, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small item — her umbrella. Folded, slightly bent, but unmistakably hers.
"You left it in the lecture hall. Again."
Emma blinked. "I didn't even realize."
"I know."
She took it from him and set it on the table like a trinket she wasn't sure what to do with. "Thanks."
"You always forget it when it rains."
"You always remember."
He said nothing.
The silence that followed felt slightly heavier than before. Not uncomfortable — just full. The kind of silence that knew it was carrying something neither of them wanted to name.
Then, suddenly, the bell above the door rang again.
A gust of wind followed someone in — tall, broad-shouldered, soaked in rain and confidence. His hair was damp, pushed back like he'd run a mile without caring how he looked, and his jacket — black, worn leather — dripped water onto the floor without apology.
Emma glanced up, only for a second, and that was all it took.
The newcomer scanned the room like he owned it, and when his eyes met hers, he didn't smile. He smirked — slow, deliberate, and without shame.
Andrew saw the change. It was small — a pause in Emma's breath, the tilt of her head, the light spark of curiosity that flickered before she even realized it was there.
The man walked to the counter and ordered something sharp and bitter. The barista raised an eyebrow at his accent, but took the order anyway.
Emma turned back to her coffee.
Andrew did too.
But it was different now.
"So," he said quietly, "big plans for the weekend?"
She hesitated, just a beat. "Not really. Might go out. Anna mentioned a party near the square."
"You hate parties."
"I don't hate them," she said. "I just haven't found the right one yet."
He stirred his coffee. "Maybe you're looking in the wrong places."
She looked at him. Really looked this time — his tired eyes, his crooked fingers, the way he held the mug like it was anchoring him to the table. Then she smiled, soft and familiar.
"You're the safest person I know, Andrew."
He didn't reply. He didn't need to. Outside, the rain began again — soft and steady.
Inside, something had started to change.