Wednesday began with the kind of silence that waits to be broken. The city had rinsed itself clean overnight, streets glimmering under the early sun, the air sharp with salt and the faint perfume of oranges from the market. Mira arrived at the café before Carlo, turned on the lights, and found the cat already stationed on the counter beside a new bowl—the one Aiden had brought two days ago. It looked like a treaty that had outlived its war.

She whisked eggs, sugar, and cream together, the sound steady and comforting. It was Wednesday, which meant Crème Brûlée day, her mother’s old ritual: one batch for customers, one for memory. As she poured the mixture into shallow dishes, she caught her reflection in the stainless-steel bowl and didn’t recognize the calm expression staring back. Calm felt like something borrowed.

The bell over the door rang. Aiden stepped in carrying a paper roll under his arm, his hair still wet from a shower, his eyes uncertain in the morning light.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Couldn’t sleep. The rain sounded like applause.”

“Maybe it was.”

He smiled briefly, then set the roll on the counter. “I brought something.”

“Another peace offering?”

“More like an explanation.”

He unrolled the paper—a poster printed in soft sepia tones. Across the top, in familiar lettering, was *The Lovers’ Observation Diary.* Beneath it, a drawing of the café window, and below that, a quote she had written months ago: *‘Love is a pattern mistaken for coincidence.’*

Mira stared. “Where did you get this?”

“From the print shop. They traced the order back to an account under my old mural client. Fake address, prepaid. My friend thinks it was automated from your site’s RSS feed. A bot, not a person.”

“So no admirer. Just code.”

“Possibly both,” he said. “Someone built the bot.”

“And I blamed everyone human.”

He shook his head. “Reasonable hypothesis. You live among humans.”

The relief should have been pure, but it wasn’t. The mystery had been solved, yet something softer lingered—a vulnerability that couldn’t be deleted by explanation.

Carlo entered, whistling off-key. “Good morning, children of drama! Do I smell custard?”

“Wednesday special,” Mira said.

“My favorite day. Because of sugar, not sentiment.” He winked, then eyed Aiden’s poster. “Oh look, you’re famous.”

“Outdated fame,” Aiden said. “We’re retiring it.”

Carlo leaned toward Mira. “Retiring or rebranding?”

“Working,” she said firmly.

He laughed and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving the faint smell of espresso behind.

By ten, the café filled with regulars. The air shimmered with heat and vanilla. Mira moved through orders with her usual precision, but her hands trembled slightly whenever she held the torch to the sugar. The thin crust crackled, amber spreading across cream like controlled lightning. Each time she heard the sound, she thought of applause and sleepless rain.

Aiden stayed by the window sketching. The cat alternated between ignoring him and supervising. When he caught her glance, he lifted his cup in mock salute.

“You’re watching,” he said.

“I thought that was my profession.”

“Then you’re overqualified again.”

Their words balanced easily, but under them, tension hummed—a faint awareness that the secret between them had changed shape. It wasn’t distance, exactly; more like a pause in music when both players wait for the other to begin.

Around noon, he approached the counter. “Lunch?”

“I have sugar for lunch.”

“Tragic diet. I’m cooking upstairs.”

“Cooking?” she said, suspicious.

“Sort of painting you can eat. Come up after closing.”

She almost said no, the word forming out of habit, but curiosity won. “We’ll see.”

The afternoon light slid across the floor, turning everything gold. Carlo left early for errands. Mira locked the door at five, flipped the sign to *Closed,* and looked up to see Aiden leaning over the railing of his balcony.

“Permission to kidnap the chef?” he called.

“You’d need consent forms.”

“I’ll forge them.”

She climbed the narrow stairs, heart misbehaving for no sensible reason. His apartment smelled of paint and roasted vegetables. A small table stood near the window, set with two plates and a bowl of brûlée that shimmered like captured sunlight.

“You made dessert?” she asked.

“I borrowed your recipe. Or attempted to.”

She tapped the caramel surface; it dented instead of cracking.

“Attempted confirmed,” she said.

He laughed. “I knew it. That sound you make with the torch—it’s magic.”

“It’s chemistry.”

“Same thing.”

They ate in companionable quiet. The rain had left the world polished. From the window, the harbor shone pale blue; a tram passed, its bell soft as a sigh. Aiden leaned back, watching her rather than the view.

“You ever thought about publishing under your own name?”

“Never. The anonymity is the point.”

“But people read you because they feel seen.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to be seen.”

“Maybe being read is already being seen.”

She set down her spoon. “You’re contradicting yourself.”

“I’m painting myself into your argument,” he said.

Something in his tone made her look up. His expression wasn’t teasing; it was earnest, maybe even afraid. “Aiden,” she began, but the words dissolved in steam from her tea.

He smiled faintly. “Don’t worry. No confessions today.”

“That would require candles.”

“I can improvise.”  

They laughed, softly, and the tension broke just enough to breathe again.

Later, as dusk deepened, Mira returned to the café to clean up. The cat greeted her with a dignified complaint for being left out of dinner diplomacy. She lit one small lamp and stood behind the counter, thinking of how he’d looked when he said *no confessions today.* It wasn’t a promise; it was a postponement.

She picked up the torch again, caramelizing the last custard for tomorrow’s display. The flame hissed, sugar hissed back, and she whispered under her breath, “Chemistry.”

The door behind her clicked. She turned. Aiden stood in the doorway holding a small jar.

“I forgot to give you this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Sea salt. For contrast.”

“I already have salt.”

“Not this kind. It’s from the northern pier—dried by wind, not fire.”

She took the jar, the glass warm from his hand. “You collect weird things.”

“I only collect what survives storms.”

They stood there, too close for a moment that pretended to be casual. Then he nodded toward the custard.

“Permission to observe the observer?”

“You’ll ruin my concentration.”

“Risk accepted.”

He watched as she finished the final brûlée. The sugar melted into gold, and the café smelled like warmth and endings. She handed him a spoon.

“For research,” she said.

He cracked the surface. “Now I understand applause.”

After he left, she sat by the window with the cat curled on her lap. The street was quiet, the kind of quiet that feels earned. She opened her notebook and wrote:

> *Observation #47 — Some silences aren’t empty. They’re full of what two people almost said.*

She closed the book and listened to the sugar cooling, tiny cracks forming as it hardened again, each one sounding like a secret learning to keep itself.