I smile. “We’ve found the shelters with the heaters. It’s practically luxury.”
She laughs and waves me off, already turning to the next customer.
Balancing the tray carefully, I weave back through the crowd and push open the side door. The wind hits me straight away, colder after being indoors, as I rush from the entrance to the little shelter.
For a second, I think she’s gone. The bench looks empty in the half-light. But then I see her—still there under the heater, hood up even though it’s dry beneath the cover. She’s sitting quietly, hands clasped, shoulders slightly hunched as if she’s trying to take up less space.
But she stayed.
Something about that surprises me more than it should.
I step forward, the gravel crunching under my boots. “You’re still here,” I say lightly. “I was worried I’d have to eat your share.”
She looks up, just enough for me to see the faint curve of a smile beneath her hood.
“Bar’s a battlefield,” I say, setting the tray down and sliding one bowl across to her. “But worth it.”
Steam curls up from the crumble, sweet and warm, and for a moment it feels like the world outside this little shelter doesn’t exist.
She shrugs back her hood, and for the first time I see her properly.
Her hair is dark brown, tied up in a loose knot at the back of her head. By the thickness of it, I’d bet it’s long when it’s down. Stray wisps have escaped, curling slightly in the damp air.
Then there are her eyes. Piercing blue, the kind that catch you off guard because you don’t expect them. The contrast against her hair is striking, unusual, and for a second, I almost forget what I was about to say.
Her face is difficult to place. Ageless in that way some people are, calm and self-contained. There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the kind you get from squinting at sunlight rather than smiling, and a faint band of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
She’s not wearing any make-up, or if she is, it’s subtle enough that I can’t tell. Just her, exactly as she is.
It’s a face that doesn’t demand attention but somehow keeps it.
“Here,” I say quietly, pushing the bowl of crumble a little closer to her. “Still warm.”
She nods, murmuring a soft thank you, and takes the spoon.
We sit there in the soft glow of the heater, the smell of apples and cinnamon between us, rain pattering steadily on the roof above.
After a few bites, she looks up. “How did you know I wouldn’t want to go in?”
I set the spoon down and meet her eyes. “Let’s just say I’ve learned that some people don’t like walking into noise. You can spot it if you pay attention.”
Her gaze lingers on me, curious, thoughtful. “You pay attention a lot?”
“Only when it’s worth it,” I say softly.
Something shifts between us then, small but certain, like the air tightening just enough for me to notice. She glances down, pretending to focus on her crumble again, but not before I see the faint colour rising in her cheeks.
I clear my throat. “I don’t always get it right,” I mumble, half to myself.
She looks up, spoon paused midway. “What do you mean?”
I lean back slightly, the bench creaking under my weight. “Reading people. Thinking I understand them.” I let out a short breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “My ex-wife would probably say I was terrible at it.”
Her brows lift a little. “You’re divorced?”
“Four months now.” I swirl the spoon absently in what’s left of my crumble. “Nicola and I were together for years. She’s a good person, just… not meant to be with me, as it turns out.”
Eve tilts her head, her voice gentle. “That sounds difficult.”
