crashing quietly | c.l.

Three days.

That's how long it had been since Charles walked out of her café with that stupid little half-smile and a casual "See you soon," like he wasn't about to disappear completely.

Cara hadn't realized how much space he took up—not physically, not even vocally (he barely spoke half the time)—but his presence had weight. A low hum in the background. A shadow in the same corner seat, a routine she didn't know she'd memorized until it broke.

The table behind the bookshelf stayed untouched. She didn't try to keep it that way. It just... felt wrong, letting someone else sit there. That was his spot.

She wasn't waiting. Obviously.

She had a life. A business. Bills. A new grinder that kept making that weird buzzing noise. She didn't have time to worry about a man who vanished with the rain.

And yet.

That afternoon, as the café emptied out and the late sun spilled through the windows in that golden, almost cinematic way, she caught herself doing it again—checking the door. Like maybe he'd walk in. Hoodie up, helmet in hand, acting like nothing had changed.

Only he didn't.

Instead, her phone buzzed.

She didn't expect anything. Probably a supplier or her landlord. But the name on the screen made her blink.

@lando.jpg

She stared at it like it might bite.
Curious—and okay, a little apprehensive—she opened the message.

Lando Norris:
tell charles the espresso is mid.

also he says hi.
but like. not hi hi.
like normal hi.
idk he's weird. ok bye.

Cara stared at the screen, her eyebrows slowly lifting.

What. The. Hell.

She didn't respond. Mostly because she had no idea what to say. And partly because... it warmed her in a way she didn't like.

He was thinking about her.

Enough to say hi. Enough to make Lando say it for him.

She set the phone down and wiped her hands on her apron like that would get rid of the weird flutter in her chest. Dumb.

She walked over to the pastry case, adjusted the tray of cinnamon croissants that hadn't sold. She'd made too many that morning. Again. Third time this week.

She told herself it was just a baking rhythm thing. Not some weird subconscious habit tied to a certain person who used to eat them without asking.

The café was quiet again.

Too quiet.

And for the first time since she opened it, she didn't love that.

//

help.
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