The next night, the rain stopped.

The streets glistened, still wet, as if the storm had forgotten to take its memories with it.

Devansh stood outside the café, staring at the flickering “OPEN” sign. It had gone out once or twice, but somehow still clung to life — like her.

He pushed the door open. The bell chimed softly.

The café was empty except for her.

Liora was wiping the counter, pretending not to notice him. Her hair was tied up tonight, her sleeves rolled down. Everything about her seemed more careful — too careful.

“Hey,” he said gently.

She didn’t look up. “We’re… closed.”

He smiled. “The sign says open.”

“Then the sign is wrong.”

He walked to his usual table and sat. “Then fix it.”

That made her glance up — just a little. He caught it, smiled again.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” she said quietly.

“And miss my midnight coffee? No chance.”

Her voice was sharp, but her hands trembled as she wiped the same spot again and again.

“You saw what I am,” she said finally. “You should be running.”

He looked up from his notebook. “Why would I run from someone who made me write again?”

She froze.

“Devansh,” she said softly, “I could hurt you.”

He shrugged. “So could my deadlines.”

That almost got a smile out of her. Almost.

But then she sighed — a quiet, tired sound that carried years inside it.

“You don’t understand… I’ve spent centuries avoiding people. The moment I start to care, they end up broken.”

He closed the notebook and leaned forward.

“Then maybe the problem isn’t you,” he said. “Maybe it’s that you keep meeting people who never stayed long enough to understand you.”

She looked at him — really looked. The exhaustion in her eyes met the warmth in his, and for a second, the centuries between them disappeared.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Because,” he said simply, “you deserve someone who doesn’t run.”

The silence stretched, filled only by the faint hum of the lights.

After a moment, she asked, “Aren’t you afraid?”

“Terrified,” he said with a faint grin. “But maybe that’s what makes it worth it.”

For the first time, she smiled — small, hesitant, real.

She poured his coffee, placed it before him, and said softly, “You really are impossible.”

He raised his cup slightly. “Takes one to know one.”

And as the clock struck 2:00 a.m., neither of them spoke again.

The world outside remained dark, but inside the café, for the first time in centuries — she didn’t feel cold.