ADRIAN
The scent of warm bread and seasoned broth greets me as I step inside the charity center. The air hums with quiet conversation, the clatter of trays, the rustle of chairs. Familiar. Grounding.
"Adrian! You're early today."
I turn at the voice to find Lena, arms crossed, a knowing smile on her lips. She's been running this place for years—kindness edged with steel, always in control.
I shrug. "Figured I'd get a head start."
She scoffs. "You and your 'head starts.' You work too hard, child. Go on, wash up. I'll put you to work soon enough."
Before I can move, something small crashes into my side.
"Rian!"
I steady myself, looking down to find Rosie clinging to my jacket, bright-eyed and breathless. Wild curls frame her face, her grin too big for her tiny frame.
"Well, if it isn't Miss Rosie." I crouch to her level. "You didn't get into trouble today, did you?"
She gasps, scandalized. "Me? Never."
Lena snorts. "She tried to sneak an extra cookie when she thought I wasn't looking."
Rosie pouts. "It was for Grandma."
I chuckle, ruffling her curls. "You're a terrible liar, Rosie."
She giggles and tugs on my sleeve. "Come sit with me later?"
"If I get a break."
Beaming, she darts off, her tiny hands already reaching for the napkins.
I take my time greeting the regulars. Mr. Davin, his cane resting beside him. Mrs. Paterson, her hands folded neatly in her lap, glowing as she talks about her grandson's new job. Mr. Lou, silent as always, nodding when I squeeze his shoulder.
This—these people, these moments—this is why I keep coming back.
Eventually, I roll up my sleeves and fall into the rhythm of the work. Moving trays, refilling drinks, wiping spills. Routine. Effortless.
Then—
A shift.
A quiet pull in the air.
I lift my head.
And there he is.
Maxen.
Standing just inside, scanning the room.
Our eyes meet.
A pause.
A breath.
Recognition.
Something tightens in my chest. A reflex, maybe. A warning. I should look away. I don't.
Neither does he.
Then—he moves.
I grip the tray in my hands as he walks toward me, his pace unhurried but deliberate. Each step pressing something heavier into the space between us.
He stops. Close.
The noise of the room dulls.
"Hi," he says.
Simple. Quiet. But then—
"Rian."
The name is soft, slipping from his lips like it's meant to belong there.
Something flickers deep in my chest, unexpected and warm.
I don't move. I don't breathe.
It's just a name. My name.
But from him…
The syllables settle differently in the air, pressing into my skin. A quiet, unspoken familiarity.
I swallow. "Hi."
Maxen watches me, waiting.
A beat passes. Then—
"Maxen."
I say it without thinking. Testing the weight of his name on my tongue.
Something shifts in his expression—just a flicker, a brief hesitation, but I catch it.
His hands flex slightly at his sides before he tucks them into his pockets.
A slow, almost imperceptible breath.
He nods.
"Yeah."
Silence lingers—not awkward, not heavy. Just there.
I clear my throat. "You came."
Maxen tilts his head slightly. "I told you I would. So… here I am."
Steady. Certain.
Warmth curls at the edges of my chest.
"Oh. Okay." I nod at the trays. "I can see you're busy."
"It's not too bad." I shift slightly. "Could always use an extra hand."
A beat.
Maxen steps forward. "Then I'll help."
And just like that, we move together.
Side by side, we pass out meals, the conversation quiet, effortless. The awareness doesn't fade, but it settles—something unspoken threading between the spaces we leave untouched.
The evening drifts on. The room empties. The last of the plates are stacked. Chairs tucked in. The air smells of soap and faint traces of dinner.
I wipe down the final table, sleeves pushed up, cloth twisting between my fingers. Across the room, Maxen stacks the last of the chairs. The quiet between us shifts—no longer filled with work, but something else.
I exhale, stretching my arms. "That's the last of it."
Maxen nods. "Looks good."
The silence between us deepens.
I turn to grab the damp cloth on the counter—at the same moment Maxen reaches for it too.
Our fingers brush.
A whisper of warmth. A pause that lingers too long.
Stillness.
My breath catches. My fingers twitch, but I don't move away.
Neither does Maxen.
The space between us feels different now—weighted, delicate. The room, the city outside, the faint murmur of voices down the hall—everything fades into the quiet stretching between us.
I lift my gaze.
Maxen is watching me.
The dim light flickers in his eyes—steady, unreadable. His breathing is even, but there's a tension in the way he holds still.
My fingers curl slightly.
Maxen's twitch.
Something shifts. A step, a tilt, something barely there but enough to be felt.
A breath—
Then—
Footsteps in the hallway. A voice.
"Adrian? You still here?"
The moment fractures.
I pull back too fast, the cloth slipping from my grasp. Maxen exhales, fingers flexing as if shaking something off.
The warmth vanishes too quickly.
I swallow. "Yeah. Coming."
Maxen slides his hands into his pockets. "Guess I should head out." His voice is even, but something lingers at the edges.
I nod. My grip tightens around the cloth before I force my fingers to relax.
Maxen hesitates at the door.
Just for a second.
Then he's gone.
I exhale, but my hand still tingles, the ghost of that fleeting touch refusing to fade.
This—whatever it is—feels like the start of something I don't want to lose.
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TO BE CONTINUED...
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