Maya woke up the next morning feeling like she’d run a marathon in her sleep. Her body didn’t hurt—her brain did. Yesterday kept replaying in pieces. The market. The bench. The almost-panic. The tacos. The part where she held his hand for longer than necessary.

She sat up slowly. Her apartment was too quiet again.

“Great,” she muttered. “Back to normal.”

She got through her morning routine half awake. Coffee, toast, staring at the wall, checking her phone even though she claimed she wouldn’t.

Nothing from Evan.

Which was fine. Normal. Expected.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Her stomach still dipped a little.

By the time she headed to her afternoon shift, she had convinced herself she was totally, absolutely, one hundred percent fine.

Zoe didn’t buy it for even one second.

“You’re weird today,” Zoe said as soon as Maya walked in.

“I’m normal.”

“That’s the weird part.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that like someone who isn’t fine.”

Maya groaned and tied her apron.

Zoe leaned in. “Did yesterday go bad?”

“No.”

“Did it go good?”

“Stop asking.”

Zoe smirked. “It went good.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But your face did.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You keep saying that, and yet—”

“Please,” Maya said. “I’m begging you. Let me suffer quietly.”

Zoe patted her head like she was a sad cat. “Fine. But only because your shift hasn’t started.”

Around four, the bar was still slow. A few regulars sat in their usual corner, half-watching a muted baseball game. Maya wiped down tables just to have something to do.

Her phone buzzed once.

She froze.

**Are you working today? —E**

She typed back:

**yeah. why**

**I might need a favor.

A small one.

Zero pressure.**

Maya frowned.

**that phrase is suspicious every time you use it**

**But still true.

Can you talk during your break? Five minutes.

I need an opinion.

Not a work opinion. A you opinion.**

Maya stared at the screen.

Nobody asked for her opinion. Not the real ones. Not outside the bar. Not outside nonsense small talk.

Her break came around six. She stepped outside, expecting a call.

Instead, she found Evan standing by the alley doorway.

He wasn’t supposed to look good in late-afternoon lighting. Nobody looked good in this lighting. Yet here he was, making sunset colors do overtime.

“You—” she said. “You can’t just show up everywhere.”

“I texted first.”

“That doesn’t make it less weird.”

He smiled a little. “Can we talk?”

She crossed her arms. “About what?”

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out… a small rectangular box.

She blinked. “Is that… makeup?”

“Technically.”

“Why are you holding it like it’s going to explode?”

“Because I need someone honest to tell me if it’s awful, and everyone at my office lies to me.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You want me to judge your product?”

“Just this one.”

“I’m a bartender.”

“Bartenders are honest.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re honest.”

She pointed at him. “Don’t say that like it’s a good thing.”

“It is today.”

She rolled her eyes but took the box.

It was sleek, minimal, something Evan’s brand would absolutely sell. Inside was a compact case with a new formula label.

“So what am I supposed to do?” she asked.

“Tell me if it’s good.”

“You want me to put it on?”

“No,” he said. “Just look at it. Feel it. See if it makes sense. I don’t need expertise. I need regular-person logic.”

She snorted. “Wow. You’re desperate.”

“Extremely.”

She held the compact in her palm, feeling the weight, the texture. It was smooth, a little cool.

“I mean… looks fine,” she said.

“You said that yesterday about pie.”

“Okay, but this actually looks fine.”

“What about the hinge?”

She opened it. Closed it. Opened it again.

“It’s not cheap. Doesn’t feel like it’ll snap.”

“What about the color?”

She tilted it under the light. “Looks like you didn’t let a robot pick it.”

“That’s a win.”

She glanced up at him. “Why me?”

“Because you don’t care if I like the answer.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

Closed it.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Fair.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I know this is small. I just… don’t trust yes-men. Or yes-women. Or yes-anyone.”

“And you think I’m a no-person?”

“You’re a real-person.”

Her chest tightened in that annoying way again.

She cleared her throat. “So is this the ‘favor’?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She blinked at him. “You could have sent me a picture.”

“I could have,” he said. “Didn’t want to.”

“Why?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I think I wanted to see you.”

She hated that her breath caught just a little.

“This is stupid,” she muttered.

“Probably.”

“Don’t agree with me.”

“Then it’s not stupid.”

“Now you’re lying.”

He laughed softly. “Maybe.”

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The alley was quiet except for distant traffic and the hum of a ventilation unit.

Finally, Evan asked, “Did today ruin your one-day streak?”

She thought about it. Coming to work. The message. Him waiting outside. This weird product evaluation situation.

“No,” she said. “It didn’t ruin it.”

“Good,” he said. “Can I walk you back inside?”

“You came from the inside.”

“Still counts.”

She sighed. “Fine. Halfway.”

“That’s your new rule?”

“Maybe.”

He opened the door for her, and she stepped inside first.

It was only halfway.

But she didn’t hate that he walked it with her.

Maya went through the rest of her shift in a weird, calm haze. Not exactly relaxed—she didn’t know how to do relaxed—but steady. Less tense. Every time she reached into her pocket and felt the compact, she remembered the way Evan had looked at her when he said, “I wanted to see you.”

Her stomach did a slow, annoying flip each time.

Zoe noticed immediately.

“You’re floating,” Zoe said.

“I’m walking.”

“You’re floating while walking.”

“Your face is floating.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Neither do you.”

Zoe smirked. “So you’re seeing him again.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Did he or did he not show up in the alley holding makeup like he was smuggling illegal skincare?”

Maya pinched the bridge of her nose. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Maya dropped the subject and went back to work before Zoe could extract more information out of thin air.

Around midnight, she finally clocked out. She walked home slower than usual, not because she was tired, but because her head wouldn’t stop replaying the conversation from earlier.

*I wanted to see you.*

People didn’t say stuff like that to her. Not in a way that felt real. Not without wanting something she couldn’t give them.

She unlocked her door, stepped inside, and leaned back against it for a moment.

Her apartment felt a little less empty tonight.

She checked her phone again—not because she was waiting, but because she was a liar.

Nothing new.

She set her phone face down.

Brushed her teeth.

Changed into a soft T-shirt.

Stared at the ceiling for ten minutes.

Then the phone buzzed.

She almost dropped it picking it up.

**One more thing.

About the compact. —E**

She sat up.

**what thing**

**You were right.

About the hinge.

It doesn’t feel cheap.

Everyone at the office said it was “fine,”

but none of them actually opened and closed it.**

She raised an eyebrow.

**so u needed me to flip it a few times??**

**I needed someone who wasn’t trying to impress me.

And you don’t do that.

In a good way.**

She didn’t know how to reply to that, so she typed:

**ok**

A moment later:

**Also…

thanks for the half-walk.**

She swallowed.

Her fingers hovered.

She typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally:

**dont get used to it**

He replied:

**Too late.**

She threw the phone onto her pillow and groaned into her blanket.

This was ridiculous.

This was dangerous.

This was… something.

She fell asleep that night faster than she expected.

And for the first time in a while, she didn’t cry before it happened.