Chapter 2: Click

There was something about him and coffee.

Lena didn't even like the stuff.

She preferred tea—strong, bitter, steeped in herbs no grocery store carried. But when Eliot Chase showed up at the vending machine that morning with two paper cups and an awkward, hopeful smile, she accepted one without a word.

He looked like he'd rehearsed the delivery in his head three times and still wasn't sure he got it right.

"Thought you might like some," he said, offering it like a peace offering.

Lena tilted her head. "And what made you brave the vending beast?"

His smile flickered. "Morbid curiosity. And I owed you."

She took the coffee from his hand, her fingers grazing his—barely a brush—and felt something sharp skitter down her spine.

Not magic.Not instinct.Want.

They found an old metal bench on the back terrace. Half-forgotten by the rest of the office—quiet, slightly rusted, and shaded by a cracked overhang. Rain had swept through the city before dawn, and the air still smelled of iron and storm.

It was the kind of place Lena liked: overlooked. Quiet. Unclaimed.

Eliot sat with his knees together, elbows on his thighs, both hands wrapped around his cup like it might disappear if he let go. He didn't crowd her. Didn't angle toward her. If anything, he was giving her space.

His presence was light. Careful. Measured.

No glances that lingered too long. No unconscious leaning in. Even with only inches between them on the bench, he didn't let his leg brush hers—though anyone else would have, accidentally or not.

Not him.

Too careful.

It made her stomach twist in a strange, tight way she hadn't felt in years.

"Been here long?" he asked after a minute, voice quiet—like he wasn't sure if she'd answer.

"Long enough."

He smiled faintly. "That sounds ominous."

Lena took a sip. "Everything sounds ominous when I say it."

"Not everything," he murmured—and immediately flushed. "I mean—it's cool. You're cool."

She tilted her head. "You're bad at compliments."

"I'm terrible at them."

"I noticed."

He laughed, soft and breathless. Not loud. Not performative. Just… real. She liked that about him—he didn't talk just to fill the air. When he said something, it meant something. Even if it came out crooked.

They sat in another beat of silence, watching steam rise from their cups.

Then Eliot asked, "You ever feel like you're playing a character here?"

Lena turned to look at him, slowly.

He was still staring into his coffee. "Like... everyone's pretending. Wearing the office version of themselves. Laughing at the right moments. Performing."

"All the time," she said.

He nodded, almost like he'd expected that answer. "I try to disappear. Easier than pretending to be something I'm not."

She watched him a moment longer. "And what are you?"

He hesitated. Like it might be a trap.

"I don't know yet," he said finally. "But not what they want."

Her heart beat once, hard.

She hadn't expected that.

He glanced at her, then away. "You don't pretend. That's why I noticed you."

Noticed.

Not saw. Not heard of.

Noticed.

The word slid between her ribs like a warm pin and lodged there, humming.

"Careful," she said softly, a warning wrapped in a smile. "You keep saying things like that, I might start believing you're sincere."

He met her gaze this time. Steady. "I am."

And there it was again.

Click.

Not loud. Not sudden.

Just the unmistakable fit of one strange shape locking into another.

Her pulse skittered, sharp and fast. She could hear it in her wrists.

She wanted—stupidly, suddenly—to reach across the space between them. Just once. Just to touch him. Just enough to know.

Instead, she leaned back.

Slow. Composed.

"I don't usually do coffee with coworkers," she said.

"I figured."

"But you're not like the others."

"I know."

They finished the rest in silence—but the quiet had changed.

No longer awkward.

Just charged.

When they stood, their eyes met again.

This time, Eliot didn't look away.

"I'll see you later," he said.

Lena nodded. "You will."

And as he walked back inside—careful not to look over his shoulder—

She let herself smile.

Not big. Not wide.

Just enough to show teeth.