Clara didn’t know when their days began to overlap like this.
It wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t discussed.
It simply… happened.
A slow merging of routines—
one quiet morning at a time.
Elias showed up again the next day.
Same time.
Same steady pace.
Same way of looking for her the second he stepped inside.
“Morning,” he said.
Clara tried not to smile too obviously. “Morning.”
“You slept?” he asked.
“A little. You?”
“A little.”
It had become their question.
And their answer.
He walked toward the counter, stopping only when he was close enough for her to feel the faint brush of his coat. He set something on the table.
Another paper bag.
Warm.
“Breakfast again?” she asked.
“You didn’t tell me which one you liked best.”
“Elias, you already brought three yesterday—”
“So I brought different ones.”
She stared at him.
“…You’re impossible.”
“I’m consistent.”
He said it like it was something he’d never been for anyone else.
Clara opened the bag. Three pastries, all different. Again.
“You don’t have to do this every morning.”
He met her eyes, calm and matter-of-fact.
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I want you to start your day with something warm.”
Her heartbeat thudded once—hard.
Before she could respond, Marla burst in through the back door.
“Clara—! We’re out of ribbon—oh.”
She froze, then smirked.
“Breakfast Boy is here again.”
Clara groaned. Elias didn’t blink.
Marla crossed her arms. “So, Elias… do you ever go to your own office? Or is this your new one?”
“Here is preferable,” he said simply.
Clara almost dropped the pastry.
Marla choked on air. “Okay, I’m leaving before I say something inappropriate.”
She vanished.
Clara tried to recover her dignity.
“Don’t mind her.”
“I don’t.”
She took a bite of the pastry, cheeks warming when he watched too carefully.
“You’re staring,” she murmured.
“I know.”
“Elias—”
“I’m learning your expressions.”
Her breath caught.
“…Why?”
“So I know when you like something.”
His tone softened.
“Or when you don’t.”
Her heart did something unsteady.
Before she could come up with a response, a doorbell chimed and an elderly man stepped in. Clara excused herself and helped him pick flowers for his wife’s birthday.
While she arranged the bouquet, she felt Elias behind her again—quiet, present, steady.
And when the customer left, she found him still there, sleeves rolled, hands in pockets, eyes on her.
“Clara.”
She swallowed. “Yeah?”
“Are you free tonight?”
Her breath hitched.
“I—I think so.”
He nodded once. As if that settled something inside him.
“Good.”
“What did you have in mind?” she asked.
Elias held her gaze.
“To spend more time with you.”
Her inhale broke.
She didn’t answer at first.
He stepped a little closer.
“Is that all right?”
Clara nodded before her voice returned.
“…Yes,” she whispered. “It’s all right.”
By evening, Clara had replayed his question more times than she cared to admit.
Are you free tonight?
The simplicity of it made her nervous.
The honesty of it made her warm.
When she closed the shop, the sky had already shifted into deep sunset colors—soft oranges melting into navy blue. She swept the front steps, locked the door, and tucked her scarf around her neck.
She hadn’t told Elias when she’d be done.
But he was there anyway.
Leaning against the lamppost across the street, hands in his coat pockets, watching the shop door like he’d been waiting for exactly this moment.
Clara stopped in her tracks.
“You’re early,” she called.
“You’re late,” he replied.
She smiled. “I close at the same time every day.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“I didn’t want to risk missing you.”
Her breath stumbled. She walked across the street toward him, each step feeling strangely significant.
When she reached him, he straightened.
“Cold?” he asked.
“A little.”
He looked down at her scarf—his scarf—and something softened in his eyes.
“Where do you want to go?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I’m fine anywhere.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is if the point is being with you.”
Clara’s cheeks flushed in the fading light.
“…Elias.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Clara.”
She laughed softly, nervous and warm all at once. “We can at least pretend we’re deciding.”
He considered this.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll walk.”
“And I’ll… walk with you.”
They fell into step naturally, their arms brushing every so often—small, accidental touches that felt anything but accidental.
They walked past quiet storefronts, past the small bookstore Clara liked, past a row of dim apartment windows glowing gold.
At one point, a group of people squeezed by on the narrow sidewalk. Elias shifted without thinking—placing himself between her and the crowd, guiding her with the lightest touch on her elbow.
Clara felt the warmth linger long after his hand moved away.
“You do that a lot,” she said softly.
“What?”
“Putting yourself between me and things.”
“Things?”
“People. Doors. Corners. Anything that moves.”
He didn’t look at her.
But his voice stayed low.
“It’s instinct.”
“For everyone?”
“No.”
Her heart thudded.
They reached the small overlook near the marina—the same railing where they had met days earlier. The air was colder tonight, sharper. The water below reflected streaks of fading daylight.
Clara wrapped her arms tighter around herself.
Elias noticed instantly.
Without a word, he stepped closer—close enough that their coats brushed, close enough that she could feel the steady heat radiating off him.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes.”
They stood like that for a moment—silent, steady, facing the water.
Then Elias said, “Clara.”
She looked up at him.
“I like being near you.”
Her breath caught.
“I don’t know what this is yet,” he continued, “but I don’t want to step away from it.”
Clara swallowed, her voice barely a whisper.
“…I don’t want you to, either.”
The wind softened.
Or maybe he stepped closer.
Either way—
their hands found each other again,
without hesitation,
without asking,
and without needing a name.
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