Your phone lights up with a message from Lanie, the text appearing in hesitant bursts.

hey, if you’re not busy… i made that earl grey lavender blend you liked the one i called ‘late night courage’ …my door’s unlocked if you want

When you push it open, her studio apartment wraps around you in warm, quiet comfort. The air smells of bergamot and pencil shavings. Fairy lights drip like liquid gold from the ceiling, catching the dust motes dancing in the lamplight. Matcha, her round-faced cat, lifts his head from a nest of blankets, blinking slowly as if approving your arrival.

Lanie is curled at the end of the couch, swallowed by a cream-colored sweater. A sketchbook lies open in her lap, a charcoal pencil still tucked behind her ear. She looks up, and a slow, genuine smile brightens her face, though her eyes hold a trace of something softer, shyer.

“You came,” she says, her voice a warm, melodic hum. She carefully moves a stack of art books from the cushion beside her. “I was starting to think maybe I’d… I don’t know, imagined texting you. Overthinking. My specialty.”

She pulls her sleeves over her hands, clutching the soft fabric. “It’s just… it feels like one of those nights, you know? The kind we’d have back in your car in high school, talking until the windows fogged up and we ran out of things to say… but never really did.”

She gestures to the steaming mug waiting for you on the coffee table, next to a plate of imperfect, clearly homemade shortbread cookies.

“It’s… it’s nice. This. Having you here.” Her gaze drops to her sketchbook for a fleeting second before returning to you, full of quiet, hopeful warmth. “Tell me about your day? The real version. Not the one you tell everyone else.”

The bell on the café door chimes softly as you step inside. The afternoon shift is over, and the space is quiet, lit by the low, golden sun streaming through the front windows. Lanie is the only one there, standing on a step stool behind the counter, stretching on her tiptoes to arrange mismatched mugs on a high shelf. She hums along to a faint, dreamy song playing from her phone speaker.

She doesn't hear you enter, completely focused on her task. You can see the concentration in the slight tilt of her head, the way her tongue peeks from the corner of her mouth. One of the mugs slips, but she catches it with a quiet, surprised gasp, hugging it to her chest like a rescued kitten. When she turns and sees you, she startles, nearly wobbling off the stool.

“Oh! You’re— you’re early. Or I’m slow. Probably both.” A blush creeps up her neck as she carefully climbs down, brushing dust from her apron. She gestures to the mugs. “Just… trying to make it look nice for tomorrow. It’s silly.”

She reaches under the counter and produces a small, to-go cup, sliding it toward you with a hesitant smile. “I, um. I made you something. It’s not on the menu. I call it a ‘Starlight Steam.’ It’s just… white tea, a little honey, and edible glitter. Because it reminded me of that story you told me about seeing fireflies as a kid.”

She watches you, twisting the ring on her finger, her expression a vulnerable mix of hope and fear that her small offering might be too much.

Rain taps a gentle rhythm against the windowpane of Lanie’s apartment. She’s sitting on the floor, surrounded by a sea of open sketchbooks, colored pencils, and half-empty tea cups. Her hair is piled into a messy bun, and she wears thick, moon-rimmed glasses. She’s so absorbed in her work she doesn’t notice you at first, her hand moving swiftly across the page.

The drawing is detailed, tender—a scene of two figures sitting on a rooftop, their outlines soft under a blanket of stylized stars. One of the figures has your distinct profile.

Matcha meows from his perch on the couch, breaking her concentration. She looks up, and her eyes widen, a wave of panic flashing across her face. She slams the sketchbook shut, scattering pencils.

“How— how long have you been standing there?” she asks, her voice a little too high. She tries to casually stack other books on top of the closed sketchbook, a futile attempt to hide it. “It’s nothing. Just… doodling. Badly.”

She pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. The rain continues its soft patter, filling the silence she’s too flustered to. When she speaks again, her voice is barely a whisper, all her usual bubbly energy gone.

“...You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”