Thursday began with a sky too honest to ignore—wide, blue, and full of the kind of light that forgave nothing. Mira unlocked the café early, the bell’s echo still sleepy in the hallway. The cat followed her inside, tail flicking judgment at the lateness of dawn. She turned on the espresso machine and watched the first hiss of steam curl upward, the same way her thoughts did when she didn’t catch them in time.  

She told herself it was a regular day. It wasn’t. It was the day after “no confessions,” and that phrase had been looping in her head like a melody missing its final note.  

At seven-thirty, Carlo arrived with his usual chaos of groceries and optimism. “Morning, boss,” he said. “You look suspiciously reflective. Dangerous for pastries.”  

“I’m fine.”  

“Fine is baker language for complicated.”  

“Then I’m complicated.”  

“Perfect. I’ll add whipped cream.”  

She laughed despite herself, grateful for the distraction.  

The doorbell chimed again at eight. Aiden stepped in, balancing two cups and a brown paper bag that announced itself with the smell of toast and butter.  

“I brought breakfast,” he said.  

“For me or the cat?”  

“The cat charges appearance fees. For you.”  

“Why?”  

“Because I owe you a real meal that doesn’t involve burnt sugar.”  

She wiped her hands. “This isn’t—”  

“—a date,” he finished, smiling. “Exactly. It’s research.”  

“What kind of research requires bread?”  

“The scientific study of morning conversation.”  

He placed the cups on the counter. Steam rose between them like a peace flag. The cat jumped onto a stool, supervising.  

They ate standing up, because sitting felt too deliberate. He’d brought jam from the market—strawberry, sweet enough to taste like optimism.  

“So,” he said, “how’s your anonymity today?”  

“Intact, thanks to your detective work.”  

“My friend confirmed it’s over. The bot’s offline.”  

“Good. Now I can go back to writing badly in private.”  

“Badly?”  

She shrugged. “Mediocre truths.”  

He tore the bread in half and handed her the bigger piece. “Mediocre truths are still truths. That’s rarer than perfection.”  

“You’re quoting something.”  

“Myself.”  

“Unreliable source.”  

He grinned. “You should write about breakfast.”  

“Not poetic enough.”  

“Everything’s poetic if you watch long enough.”  

She looked at him, at the faint smear of jam near his wrist, and wondered how he managed to make ordinary things feel like drafts of something larger.  

By nine, customers began trickling in. Carlo took over the front. Mira slipped into the back kitchen, needing air—or the absence of conversation. The stainless tables reflected her hands, her apron, the faint tremor of thoughts she didn’t name.  

Aiden appeared at the doorway, holding a tray. “Permission to assist?”  

“You’ll ruin the symmetry.”  

“I’m artistically asymmetrical.”  

“Meaning messy.”  

“Precisely.”  

He set the tray down and watched as she poured batter into molds. “You concentrate like someone translating music.”  

“That’s how recipes work. Every gram a note.”  

“And every mistake, a new song.”  

“You sound romantic for a realist.”  

“I’m realistic about romance.”  

She laughed, and the sound startled them both. He moved closer, not close enough to touch, but enough for warmth to register.  

“Why do you keep helping here?” she asked.  

“Because painting takes silence, and silence gets loud. This place quiets it.”  

“You use too many metaphors.”  

“Occupational hazard.”  

Carlo’s voice interrupted from the front. “Mira! The delivery guy says our cream’s delayed!”  

“On it!” she called, stepping around Aiden. Their shoulders brushed; neither apologized.  

Later, during the midmorning lull, she stood by the window wiping down the counter. Aiden was sketching again, the cat coiled like punctuation beside him. He looked up.  

“Next Sunday,” he said casually, “there’s an art fair near the harbor. I’ll have a booth.”  

“Congratulations.”  

“I need a partner.”  

“For what?”  

“For conversation. I’m terrible with people who think paintings are mirrors.”  

“Most are.”  

“Exactly. I need someone who looks through instead of at.”  

“I run a café, not an exhibit.”  

“Same thing, different flavor.”  

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s your pitch?”  

“That’s my confession.”  

Her heart stuttered, the phrase looping again—no confessions today. She exhaled slowly. “You said you don’t confess on weekdays.”  

“I said *that* day. This one’s different.”  

“A dangerous precedent.”  

“I’ll risk it.”  

Before she could reply, Carlo shouted again. “Mira! The cat’s on the pastry rack!”  

They both turned. The gray tyrant was indeed seated atop a tray of croissants, tail curled like a flag of victory.  

Aiden laughed. “See? Even the cat approves of rebellion.”  

Mira sighed, lifting the animal down. “Rebellion is easier than cleaning fur off pastry.”  

“Still a kind of art.”  

By noon, sunlight slanted in like melted gold. Customers thinned; the smell of coffee lingered. Aiden packed his sketches. “I’ll leave you to your empire.”  

“Bring your own lunch next time.”  

“Next time?”  

She realized what she’d said and pretended to adjust a cup. “Figure of speech.”  

“Sure,” he said softly. “I’ll bring better jam.”  

He touched the counter, a small tap like punctuation, then left.  

The cat watched him go, then looked at her as if expecting commentary.  

“Don’t start,” she muttered. “It wasn’t a date.”  

The cat blinked, unimpressed, and yawned.  

That evening, the café dimmed into its usual calm. She cleaned slower than necessary. On the wall, the reflection of the window blurred into twilight. She opened her notebook.  

> *Observation #48 — Some mornings insist on pretending to be ordinary until someone calls them otherwise.*  

The ink shimmered faintly in the fading light. She closed the book, whispered, “Not a date,” and didn’t quite believe herself.