“I will take that under advisement,” he said.
Conversation settled more easily after that. We talked about books, architecture, and his current project. When he spoke about his work, he changed in subtle but unmistakable ways. He became more open, more intent, and a little less guarded. His hands moved as he explained things, sketching lines and curves in the air. I found myself watching those hands much longer than was strictly necessary.
At one point he paused and looked at me more closely.
“You are distracted,” he said.
I wrapped both hands around my tea. “I am trying to picture what you’re describing.”
That was not technically a lie. It was just not the whole truth.
He seemed to know that and let it pass. Instead, he reached for the napkin dispenser.
“May I?”
I nodded, curious.
He pulled out several napkins and began folding them. His large hands moved with improbable skill, transforming flat squares into a rough but elegant little structure with arches and levels and clever transitions between spaces. I leaned in despite myself.
“That is unfairly impressive,” I said.
“It is a simplified model.”
“It is made of napkins.”
His mouth twitched.
I felt the attention shift before I identified the source. A nearby table had gone quieter, and when I glanced over, two women were pretending not to look in our direction. He had noticed too. I saw the tension settle through his shoulders.
“Perhaps we should leave,” he said.
“No.”
The word came out sharper than I intended, and he gave me a surprised look..
“We’re fine,” I said, more quietly. “They can stare if they want to. That is their problem.”
Something warm flickered in his expression.
“You are unexpectedly fierce,” he said.
“I am a librarian. People underestimate us at their peril.”
That earned another soft rumble from him, and I felt absurdly pleased with myself.
A plate of pastries appeared at our table. “Compliments of Marjorie,” the barista said, setting it down before retreating with obvious curiosity.
He picked up a scone, which looked comically small in his hand. I watched him take a bite, and then had to remind myself, firmly and repeatedly, that I was a grown woman in a public café and it was not normal to be this undone by the sight of a minotaur eating baked goods.
“You are staring again,” he said.
Heat rushed up my neck. “I’m observing.”
“Intently.”
“I’m thorough.”
His gaze held mine long enough to make the space between us feel charged. Without fully thinking it through, I reached across the table and rested my fingertips lightly on the back of his hand.
