A Language of Their Own

The Spaces Between Us (Sylvia POV)

She hadn't realized how much she had gotten used to seeing him, until he wasn't there.

The coffee shop still felt the same. The quiet hum of conversation, the faint clatter of porcelain, the comforting weight of a book in her hands. But something was missing. Or rather, someone.

He used to show up often, slipping into the seat across from her like he belonged there, wearing that infuriatingly easy smirk. But lately, his chair remained empty. No teasing remarks. No debates that spiraled into something deeper. Just silence.

She told herself it was stupid to notice.

But when she pushed open the cafe door that evening, still wrapped in the weight of another long day at work, she froze.

There he was.

Sitting at their table.

And, for a moment, she hated how relief twisted through her.

He looked up at her like he'd been waiting. Like he knew she'd walk in and find him.

And when she slid into her seat, arching an eyebrow, he only grinned. "What, no grand welcome?"

"You haven't been around." She didn't mean for it to sound accusatory, but the words settled between them like a quiet truth.

He exhaled, leaning back against the chair. "I've been busy."

She waited.

He ran a hand through his dark hair, the movement slow, deliberate. "PTO," he said, finally. "I had a few days off before. Now I'm back to work."

Something about that explanation—about the way he said it—made her pause.

"You were here because you were on PTO?" she asked.

He tilted his head, studying her. "I was here because I wanted to be."

Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table. She wasn't sure why she felt so thrown off balance. "And now?"

"Now," he said, watching her carefully, "I have less time. But I'm still here."

She didn't know what to do with that answer.

So she did what she always did—she deflected. "So, what exactly do you do?"

"You mean besides annoying you?" he said, smirking.

She rolled her eyes. "Professionally."

"I manage a software team." He glanced at her coffee cup, then back at her. "You're an editor, right?"

She nodded, stirring her drink absentmindedly. "I work with a publishing company."

"Figures." He smiled. "You read more than anyone I've ever met."

She huffed. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Not at all." His voice was softer now. "I like that about you."

She blinked, caught off guard.

He didn't say things like that—not outright, not without a layer of teasing wrapped around it. But tonight, there was something different in the air between them.

She took a slow sip of her coffee, breaking eye contact. "I didn't take you for a manager."

"And I didn't take you for someone good at math," he countered smoothly.

She frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just assumed you were all words, no numbers." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "But then you did that thing the other day, remember? You looked at the bill and figured out the exact split before I even pulled out my phone."

She blinked. "That's just basic mental math."

"It's impressive."

"It's not."

"It is to me."

She wasn't sure why that made her throat feel tight.

The conversation shifted after that, flowing easily into their usual back-and-forth, but she couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. Something subtle, something unspoken.

And when they finally left the cafe, walking in different directions, her phone buzzed in her pocket.

A message.

From him.

See you soon, fantasy girl.

She stared at the words longer than she should have.

And, for the first time in weeks, she let herself smile.