Raka leaned back, letting her words settle.Silence isn't empty.You just haven't learned how to sit in it yet.
He'd been many things loud, witty, confident. But "quiet" had never been one of them. Still, sitting across from Nayla, in this small corner café where the noise of the world seemed to pause, he realized silence didn't feel like absence.It felt like her.
"I'm not afraid of silence," he said, eyes narrowing playfully. "I just think words are underrated."
She raised an eyebrow. "And yet you use so many."
He smirked. "Well, you're a tough audience. I have to keep trying until I get a laugh."
Nayla didn't laugh. But the corner of her lips twitched, and for her, that was practically a belly laugh.
Encouraged, he leaned in slightly. "Was that almost a smile?"
She took another sip of coffee, cool as ever. "Don't get ahead of yourself."
"Too late," he echoed her old message from the week before.
This time, she barely. But it was there. A real one. And Raka caught it like it was rare sunlight through a crack in the clouds.
He reached over and nudged her cup with his. "Cheers to progress."
She clinked his cup without hesitation. "Small victories."
A silence followed, but not the kind that felt awkward. The kind where the air feels charged, like static before a storm. She looked out the window, and he looked at her, wondering how someone could say so little and still make him feel so much.
"You always dress like you're expecting a sudden snowstorm," he teased, glancing at her zipped-up navy jacket.
"It's called being prepared."
"For what? Antarctica?"
She gave him a sideways glance. "Maybe I just like layers. They keep people guessing."
"I could guess," he said, voice low and playful now. "But I think you'd just call me wrong."
"Probably," she said. But her tone softened. "But I might let you try."
That caught him off guard. He blinked, a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth. "Well, now I'm scared."
She looked amused. "Of me?"
"Of what you're doing to my ego."
"You'll live."
They fell quiet again, but this time it buzzed with something new. Something not yet said, but circling closer.
"Why do you keep showing up?" she asked suddenly, not accusing—just curious.
He met her gaze. "Because I like showing up for you."
She looked down at her cup, then back at him. "Even when I barely text back? Even when I cancel? Even when I hide behind layers?"
He nodded. "Especially then."
Something flickered in her eyes, surprise, maybe even warmth. She glanced away, hiding behind her mug again.
"You're a little too charming for someone who talks so much," she said.
"And you're a little too pretty for someone who tries so hard to disappear."
She didn't argue.
When they stood to leave, he reached for her bag before she could, slinging it over his shoulder with a wink. "I'm walking you home."
She didn't protest.
Instead, as they stepped out into the warmth of the late afternoon, she murmured, "Fine. But only because you carry my stuff well."
He grinned. "Whatever gets me a fourth date."
She didn't smile. Not exactly.
But she didn't say no either.