He was already there when I arrived.

Same spot. Same bench near the window.

Same stupid habit of tapping his fingers against his phone screen like he was pretending not to wait.

“You’re late,” he said without looking up.

“I’m exactly seven minutes late,” I replied, dropping my bag beside him. “That’s still early in my world.”

He finally looked at me, smiling.

The kind of smile that didn’t try to impress anyone. The kind that felt familiar.

“I ordered your usual,” he said.

I blinked. “You didn’t even ask.”

“I don’t need to.”

Of course he didn’t.

He never did.

I sat beside him, our shoulders brushing slightly. Not enough to be awkward. Not enough to pull away. Just… normal. Comfortable.

“How was your day?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Tiring. Yours?”

“Better now.”

I laughed softly. “Liar.”

“Okay,” he admitted. “But quieter.”

There was a pause. Not the uncomfortable kind. The kind we always shared — filled with unspoken things we never questioned.

People said silence was awkward.

With him, silence felt safe.

I noticed his sleeve was rolled up again. He always did that without realizing. I reached out instinctively and fixed it for him.

He froze.

Then slowly turned to look at me.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just… you always do that.”

I pulled my hand back, suddenly aware of how close we were.

“Sorry. Habit.”

He smiled again. Softer this time.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I like your habits.”

My heart skipped. Just once.

I told myself it was nothing.

He was still my best friend.

Right?