The café had finally quieted.
The evening rush was over, leaving only the low thrum of jazz from the speakers and the soft click of cups being stacked behind the counter. The city outside was dim and quiet, streetlamps flickering to life one by one.
Catherine wiped the final table, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, apron dusted in flour. Her body moved out of habit, but her mind was miles away — caught between the fragments of everything that had unraveled in the past few months.
Her father's sudden passing.
Maverick's betrayal.
The feeling of being cracked open and stitched back together with thread too thin to hold.
It was too much for such a short span of time. And yet, here she was — still breathing. Still moving.
She glanced toward the back where Aina was cleaning up, humming some old K-pop tune. That girl had been her anchor more times than she could count. Loud. Loyal. Fierce. The kind of friend who didn't just show up — she stayed.
And now… there was Collin.
Unexpected. Uninvited. And yet… undeniably present.
Catherine still didn't know what he was to her. But she knew what he wasn't — he wasn't like the others. He didn't push. He didn't pretend. He just showed up when she needed him most.
As if summoned by the thought, the door chimed softly.
She turned — and there he was.
Collin.
Wearing a dark coat, the wind still clinging to his sleeves, and a brown paper bag in one hand.
"Hey," he said, that low voice of his wrapping around her like a wool blanket.
She blinked, surprised. "You came back?"
He gave a slight nod. "Didn't like the idea of you ending the night without dinner. Figured I'd fix that."
He held up the bag. "Creamy tomato pasta. Garlic bread. Hope that's not a war crime."
She laughed — softly, but real. "You're ridiculous."
"And persistent," he added, setting the bag down on the closest table. "Aina told me she'd tackle me if I let you skip another meal."
From the back, Aina yelled, "Still true!"
Catherine shook her head, untying her apron and sliding into the chair across from him.
"Thanks," she said, voice quieter now. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."
"You've had a lot on your mind," he replied gently.
She opened the container, and the smell of roasted tomatoes and melted cheese made her chest ache — not from hunger, but from the sudden, unfamiliar feeling of being cared for.
She took a bite. Then another.
Collin watched her for a moment, elbows resting lightly on the table.
Then, softly:"How are you really feeling these days?"
The question caught her off guard.
Not how are you, like a passing greeting.
But how are you, like someone actually wanted to know.
She looked down at her food, fork paused midair.
"I don't even know," she admitted. "Some days I feel like I'm fine. Like I've got it under control. And then something small happens — a song, a scent, someone mentioning their dad — and suddenly I'm not fine at all."
Collin nodded slowly, giving her space.
"I keep thinking about how everything happened so fast," she continued. "One minute I was planning life with someone. The next, I was trying to remember how to just… be alone."
Her voice faltered. "And I miss my dad. Every single day. Sometimes I forget he's gone for a second, and then I remember, and it's like losing him all over again."
Collin's eyes didn't leave hers. He didn't interrupt. He didn't rush to fix it.
He just listened — and somehow, that was enough.
"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," she murmured.
"Because you needed to," he said. "And I'm here."
Catherine blinked hard, swallowing the lump rising in her throat.
She set her fork down and looked at him — really looked.
"You know what's strange?" she said. "I've lost a lot recently. People I thought would be there forever. And yet… I still have Aina. I still have this place. And… you."
Her voice softened on the last word, and she immediately looked away, cheeks coloring.
"I'm grateful," she said. "More than I know how to say."
Collin smiled. It wasn't smug or charming — it was soft. Quiet. Steady.
"You don't have to say it," he replied. "I already know."
When she finished eating, he stood and tossed the containers without being asked. He didn't linger, didn't make it a moment — he just did it.
Catherine flipped the café's sign to Closed, and he stood by the door with his hands in his coat pockets.
"I'll walk you to your car," she said, out of instinct.
He arched a brow. "I'm pretty sure that's my line."
She laughed — really laughed this time.
And as they stepped outside into the soft night air, the scent of garlic still clinging to her sleeves, she realized something.
She was still healing.Still unsure.Still fragile in places.
But not alone.
Maybe this wasn't about forgetting the pain.Maybe it was about letting someone new into the quiet spaces it left behind.