Conversation

The morning light is slanted through the curtains in a way I haven’t seen yet—like someone dragged a comb through it, uneven strokes. I sat up and for a second forgot where we were, which always happens until my fingers brush the cold metal of the bedframe. Then I remember: this is real. This is *us*, stretched out in the too-bright apartment above the café, coffee still sour in my mouth from last night. Kevin’s asleep on his side, the sheet tangled around his ankle like he wrestled an octopus. His breathing is slow and steady, the kind that makes me want to trace his jawline with my thumb just to watch him flinch awake. I resist. Mostly. I remember the candle’s new shape—pooled wax like a secret map where Kevin once pressed his palm into the melting wax, leaving fingerprints that never quite dried. We used to do that when we were younger, before we knew what it meant to *live together* beyond walls. Now the wax is just a lump, but the shape lingers in my mind like a habit I can’t shake. Kevin stirs. “You’re watching me again,” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep. “Just admiring the artistry of your rest,” I say. He cracks one eye open. “Funny. What’s next on the agenda? More existential rambling? A sudden urge to reorganize the fridge?” I laugh. “No, but I was thinking—should we finally talk to the guy from the café downstairs? The one who keeps slipping us extra cookies?” Kevin groans, sitting up. “Jenny. We’ve been here a week. If we start *relationships* with the staff, we’re never leaving.” “Or maybe we’re *rooting* here,” I say, but it comes out softer than I intend. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for the candle—our aborted experiment—and runs a thumb over the wax. “Still think we could’ve done something with this,” he murmurs. I nod, because sometimes words aren’t needed. Just the weight of the moment, the way the light catches the wax’s edges like broken glass. The doorbell rings—sharp, unexpected. Kevin blinks. “Who the hell—?” A note slips under our door. I don’t need to read it to know it’s for us. That’s why we’re here. I pick it up. The handwriting’s messy, urgent. *“You left something in my booth last night. Meet me at midnight. —M”* Kevin’s already pulling on his boots. “Midnight,” he repeats, like it’s a challenge. I grin. “Looks like we’ve got a date.”