I rolled my eyes but smiled as I typed back:
“If I’m murdered tonight, you can have my collection of first edition mythology texts. Tell my mother I died doing what I loved: overthinking a casual meeting.”
Her response came quickly:
“That’s the spirit! And wear the blue sweater—it brings out your eyes.”
I glanced down at myself, startled. How did she know? Sometimes I wondered if Brenda had some sort of librarian sixth sense. Or maybe she just knew me better than I knew myself.
The night air was crisp as I walked, just cool enough to put a spring in my step without requiring a heavy coat. Perfect café meeting weather, if such a thing existed. The streets were relatively quiet for a weeknight, with just a few people heading to or from dinner.
My mind, however, was anything but quiet. It raced through scenarios, imagined conversations, potential disasters, and unlikely triumphs. By the time I reached the café’s block, I’d mentally experienced everything from Rion being a perfectly normal, helpful person to him being an international ladder spy sent to steal the library’s design secrets.
Get a grip, Clara,I chided myself.Your imagination is getting out of hand.
The Night Owl Café lived up to its name, with a discreet owl-shaped sign illuminated by soft lighting. The windows emitteda warm, golden glow that looked inviting rather than garish. Through the glass, I could see that it wasn’t too crowded—a few students with laptops, a couple in one corner, and several empty booths along the back wall.
Perfect for a meeting with someone who’d specifically requested “minimal exposure to others.”
I took a deep breath, smoothed my sweater, and pushed open the door. A bell chimed softly overhead, announcing my arrival to no one in particular. The barista, a college-aged woman with purple hair, glanced up from her phone and offered a casual nod.
“Hi,” I said, approaching the counter. “Could I get a chai latte, please?”
“Sure thing,” she replied, putting her phone down. “For here?”
“Yes, I’m meeting someone.” The words sent a fresh flutter through my stomach. “We’ll be in one of the back booths.”
“Cool. That’ll be $4.75.”
I paid, then moved to the pick-up counter to wait for my drink. From this vantage point, I could survey the entire café, trying to determine if Rion might already be here. There were two solitary men in the room—one, a student type with headphones, hunched over a textbook; the other, an older man reading a newspaper. Neither seemed to be waiting for someone, and neither matched any of my mental images of Rion.
The barista handed me my chai, and I made my way to the furthest booth in the back corner. It offered the most privacy, with high seat backs and strategic positioning away from the main seating area. If I were someone who wanted “minimal exposure,” this is where I’d want to meet.
I slid into the booth, positioning myself facing the door so I could see when Rion arrived. My watch showed 8:47 PM. Thirteen minutes early, as planned.
I arranged my folder and materials neatly on the table, then repositioned them to look more casual, then straightened them again because the asymmetry was bothering me. After the third rearrangement, I forced myself to stop fidgeting and took a long sip of my chai instead.
The spicy warmth helped calm my nerves, if only slightly. I tried to focus on the pleasant atmosphere of the café—the soft jazz playing in the background, the gentle murmur of conversation, the comforting smell of coffee and baked goods. This was a nice place. A normal place. Nothing unusual was going to happen here.
As the minutes ticked by, I found myself studying every person who walked through the door. A young woman with a backpack. An elderly couple. A harried-looking man in a business suit who grabbed a coffee to go.
None of them were Rion.
At 8:58 PM, I checked my phone, half-expecting a cancellation text. Nothing. I took another sip of my chai, which was cooling rapidly, much like my confidence that this meeting was actually going to happen.
And then the bell above the door chimed again.
A large figure entered the café, and my breath caught in my throat.
When I say large, I don’t mean slightly tall or somewhat broad-shouldered. I mean massive—well over six feet tall, with abreadth that made the doorway seem suddenly inadequate. He wore a long, heavy coat despite the mild evening, and a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face.
If the goal was to look inconspicuous, he was failing spectacularly. The sheer size of him drew every eye in the café, though most people quickly looked away, perhaps sensing that staring might be unwelcome.
But I couldn’t look away. Something about the way he moved—deliberate, almost cautious, as if constantly aware of his size in relation to the fragile world around him—captured my attention completely.
He paused just inside the door, scanning the room from beneath the shadow of his hat. When his gaze reached my corner, he hesitated, then began moving towards me with that same measured stride.
My heart pounded so loudly I was certain the students at the next table could hear it. This had to be Rion. It couldn’t be anyone else. No one else would enter a café looking like they were trying to avoid recognition while simultaneously being impossible to ignore.
