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He walks me home anyway, maybe for the last time before whatever this pause actually means, close beside me the whole way, neither of us reaching for the other’s hand the way we would have yesterday, and the distance between us, small as it is, feels like the loudest thing in all the worlds.

Chapter 13

Wrong Order

One day. That’s all it’s been. One day since we agreed to pause things. I’ve already checked the corner by the window four times this morning, out of pure habit, and found nothing there four separate times.

One long, strange morning of telling myself it’s for the best, while my whole chest disagrees loudly every few minutes.

Once already this morning, I’ve felt the familiar prickle down my spine, that particular cold that means he’s nearby. When I turned around, there was absolutely nothing there, and I genuinely cannot tell anymore whether I’m imagining him out of pure longing or whether he’s actually there, watching from somewhere carefully, unable to fully let go of the habit even though we agreed he should.

I decide not to examine that thought too closely. It doesn’t help either way.

I’m fine. I’m working. I’m cheerful. Ask anyone. In fact, if I do say so myself, I’m doing an excellent job of being cheerful today.

This is a complete lie, obviously. But I’ve decided that repeating it internally with enough conviction might eventually make it true, the same way affirmations are supposed to work if you say them at the mirror with sufficient sincerity.

“How may we serve you!” I announce to the queue, bright as ever, and mean roughly sixty percent of it, which I think is a respectable effort given the circumstances.

The morning rush comes and goes in its usual chaotic fashion, and I get through most of it on autopilot. Smiling at the right moments, remembering most people’s usual orders, complimenting a woman’s umbrella with enough sincerity that she visibly brightens.

I do not, at any point, look up expecting to feel cold air on the back of my neck and then feel oddly hollow when I don’t.

Except that’s also a lie. I do that constantly.

Felix keeps glancing over at me between customers, not saying anything yet, just watching with the particular narrowed attention of someone building a case. The way he watches a delivery he suspects has gone wrong before he’s even opened the box.

“You’re very chipper today,” he says at one point, not looking up from the till.

“I’m always chipper,” I say, not looking up from the counter either.

“You’re chipper like a wind-up toy someone’s overwound,” Felix says, finally glancing over properly. “It’s going to end badly for somebody.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, entirely unconvincingly.

“Yes you do,” Felix says.

I ignore this, mostly because he’s right and I don’t want to think about why.

Sebastian turns up just before midday, which is new, apparently having wandered in rather than any awareness that this happens to be where I work. He does a visible double take when he spots me behind the counter. There’s something oddly careful in the way he orders. No name-calling, no comment about my job, just a plain, slightly stiff request for a flat white. Like some part of him that isn’t consciously in charge has decided caution is the wiser policy here, and he couldn’t tell you why. I’m fairly certain he has no idea his trousers had anything to do with me at all. He wasn’t particularly nice when Magdalene was bellowing for me. And yet here he is, unusually subdued, tipping without being asked, glancing at me twice more than the transaction requires.

“You look tired,” he says, which from him counts as genuine concern.

“Tiredness is the reward of hard work and good deeds,” I say brightly.

“Right.” He hovers a second longer than necessary, like he wants to say something else, then apparently decides against it and takes his coffee to a table by the window instead.

Small mercies.

Because I do not have the brainpower to figure out what the hell that was all about.

A regular comes in next, orders his usual flat white. I make him a cappuccino instead, foam and all, and don’t notice until he’s staring at it like it’s personally betrayed him.

“Sorry,” I say, already reaching to fix it. “Miles away.”

“Clearly,” he says, entirely unimpressed.

I remake it properly, apologise twice more, and give him a free biscuit he didn’t ask for, which seems to smooth things over. Felix watches the whole exchange without a word, filing it away, I suspect, for later. The way he files away most things he intends to bring up eventually, at a moment of his own choosing.