The next morning, Noah showed up later than usual—pastry bag in hand, nerves in his stomach.
He wasn't sure what the rules were after someone shared their traumatic childhood over espresso and then let you loiter until midnight. Did he say something? Pretend it didn't happen? Offer a hug?
In the end, he did what he did best: he deflected—with carbs.
Adrian looked up from behind the counter as Noah entered. Their eyes met—just a beat longer than normal.
"You're late," Adrian said, voice low but not unfriendly.
"Time's a social construct," Noah replied, holding up the bakery bag. "Brought croissants. Peace offering. Or breakfast. Whichever makes this less weird."
Adrian took the bag and peeked inside. "You bribing me with carbs?"
"Would it work?"
"Of course," Adrian said, already grabbing plates.
They settled at the usual window table, the café still quiet and golden in the early light. Noah sipped his drink, cleared his throat.
"So… do we acknowledge last night, or pretend it was an emotionally-charged fever dream?"
Adrian didn't look up. "Slow-burn emotional fallout works for me."
"Ah yes," Noah said. "The classic 'simmer in silence until someone breaks' strategy."
Adrian gave him a rare smile. "It's very French."
They ate for a moment in companionable quiet before Adrian spoke again.
"You made it easier," he said softly. "Talking."
Noah blinked, thrown. "I did?"
"I thought opening up would feel like ripping off a scab," Adrian continued. "But with you… it felt more like cleaning a wound. Messy, but necessary."
"Okay, weirdly poetic," Noah said, "but also—flattering. Are you sure you weren't a tortured author in a past life?"
Adrian chuckled. "Only tortured."
Before Noah could respond with a clever retort, the door flung open.
"Good morning, my emotionally-repressed darlings!" Isaac announced, gliding in like he owned the place. "Guess who got ghosted by a man who said 'I'm emotionally mature' and then vanished like my last shred of hope?"
Adrian blinked. "You?"
"Correct!" Isaac dropped into the seat beside Noah and promptly stole his croissant. "Also me. Also, what is this? Breakfast? Together? Are we dating now?"
"We're not dating," Noah said flatly.
Isaac gasped. "You're sitting closely. You're sharing pastries. Adrian is smiling. What did I miss?"
Noah raised a brow. "Would you believe we trauma-bonded?"
Isaac clutched his chest dramatically. "You did. Oh my God. My little emotionally stunted barista has layers!"
"Don't call me that," Adrian muttered, but he didn't sound too annoyed.
Isaac grinned at Noah. "I leave you alone for one night and you emotionally unlock the café cryptid?"
"I'm magical like that."
"I hate how cute this is," Isaac said. "But also, if you two ever kiss behind the espresso machine, I demand a warning before I walk in."
Adrian actually laughed—an honest, surprised sound that made Noah glance over at him.
"You really are the worst," Adrian told Isaac.
"I try," Isaac said proudly, biting into another stolen croissant.
The three of them sat in that small, sunlit bubble—jokes and crumbs scattered between them, warmth slipping into places that had been cold for too long.
Noah leaned back in his seat, smiling without meaning to. He didn't know what this was yet, but it felt like something good.
Something real.
And maybe—for now—that was enough.