I should’ve asked first.

The thought had been circling my mind for weeks, but every time I got close to saying it, I hesitated. Maybe because asking felt like admitting something—like giving weight to all the notes, all the lingering glances, all the reasons I kept coming back.

But today, he beat me to it.

When he set my usual coffee on the table, he didn’t walk away right away. Instead, he lingered for a second, watching me like he was debating something. Then, finally, he said it—

“You’ve been debating whether to ask or not.”

I froze, fingers curling around my cup. Before I could respond, he let out a quiet breath, shook his head, and said,

“It’s Noah.”

Simple. Steady. Like him.

It fit. Of course, it fit.

And yet, I was so caught off guard that I forgot to do the obvious thing—to return the question.

Now, sitting alone at my table, I tap my pen against my notepad, replaying the moment over and over. He knew my name. He’s known it. Maybe for a while. And yet, he still waited—until today, until he was the one to close the distance between us.

I exhale, peel off a post-it, and write:

"Noah. Somehow, it fits you exactly as it should. Not that I expected anything else."

- J

The note feels different from the others—more personal, like I’ve crossed some invisible threshold.

Still, I press it onto the table beside my cup, push back my chair, and stand.

This time, I don’t leave right away.

This time, I glance back.

And this time, when Noah picks up the note, his lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

Then he lifts his gaze—

And looks right at me.