He spoke like someone who carried entire worlds quietly beneath his ribs.
When he said you look like the kind of girl all the poems are about, Yvaine actually looked away for the first time since they’d met, a quiet breath escaping her as warmth rose unexpectedly beneath her skin.
The reaction felt embarrassingly visible.
She mustered, only half to herself, “You say that so casually.” Like it was a fact he just seared into her brain.
But there was no real reprimand in her words.
Only flustered honesty - overwhelm - as her heart only hammered in her chest with such force that she was afraid it'd break free.
Her gaze eventually found him again, gentler now, something vulnerable lingering there before she tucked it carefully back beneath composure.
“For what it’s worth,” She began, “you feel a little bit like a first chapter.”
The words slipped out before she could overthink them.
And somehow that felt even more like a warning sign.
Then Will asked her to coffee.
Which frightened her infinitely more than grand gestures ever could.
Because ordinary things were the ones people stayed for.
For a brief second, she hesitated; not because she didn’t want to go, but because she already did. Too quickly. Too instinctively.
Still, the small smile that surfaced afterward was unmistakably real.
“I think,” She spoke gently, “it would be very irresponsible of me to say no to coffee after all this discussion about human connection and literature.”
A faint tilt of her head followed, showing off her playfulness in her acceptance of continuing what just sparked between them minutes ago.
“Besides…” Her eyes flicked toward the stack of books beneath his arm. “I feel somewhat invested now in finding out what kind of poet you are.”
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By the time they stepped into Cobblestone Café, the late afternoon light had shifted warmer, pouring gold through the front windows and catching against hanging plants, polished wood, and drifting steam from the espresso machine behind the counter.
The soft hum of conversation wrapped around them immediately.
Yvaine paused just slightly inside the doorway.
Not enough to seem uncertain.
Just enough to take it in.
The café smelled like espresso, cinnamon, and fresh pastry; grounding scents she had slowly grown attached to since moving to town. Familiar enough now that something in her shoulders loosened instinctively the moment she entered.
And then she remembered, belatedly, that she was not here behind the counter for once.
She was here with someone.
The realization settled oddly warm within her chest.
A few people glanced up briefly as they walked in before returning to their conversations, the low indie music overhead soft enough not to interrupt anything. Yvaine tucked a strand of golden blonde hair behind her ear as her eyes drifted toward the chalkboard menu mounted behind the register.
“You know,” She murmured lightly as they moved toward the line, “I spend enough time here that this feels a little bit like being perceived in the wild.”
There was quiet humor in her words that came easier than before.
She was opening up even more to him.
Enough to joke. Enough to inform him of her workplace.
“Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store.”
A faint smile touched her mouth as she glanced sideways at him, continuing the lighthearted conversation.
“But less emotionally distressing.”
The line moved slowly, giving the moment room to breathe between them. At first, the young woman's hand gently grazed his. Her eyes quick to dart to his, her hand slow in pulling away.
"Sorry." It was quietly hurried. Like her mind was stuck on manners, but her heart wouldn't mind holding his hand right then.
Yvaine's cheeks glowed as she wound up folding her arms loosely against herself, gaze drifting briefly toward the rain-speckled windows before returning again with a clearer mind but a heart still struggling to stay in its cage.
“You were serious about poetry?” She asked softly after a the moment naturally settled.
There was no teasing in the question now.
Only curiosity.
“I feel like people who write poetry secretly are either extremely romantic…” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Or emotionally catastrophic.” A playful smirk turned the corners of her lips upwards - marking she was being jocular with him.