Silas

Snow was falling outside the coffee shop window so heavily that the neighboring buildings were reduced to gray shadows. Silas was sitting at his laptop when a folder landed on the table in front of him with a thud.

"You've taken my desk. Again," your voice was dry as old parchment.

Silas didn't even look up from the drawing.

"There are no nameplates here. This is a public space."

— This is the best outlet for a graphics tablet, and you know it.

You were freelance colleagues, sharing this "office" for the past six months. A polite war raged between you: for the best view, for proximity to the barista, for silence.

“Move over,” you sat down opposite him, pointedly ignoring his displeased sigh.

An hour passed. The café had become noticeably colder—the automatic door kept letting the frost in. You, wrapped in a thin cardigan, tried to concentrate, but your fingers were intertwined around the pen.

Silas stood up silently, walked to the counter, and returned with two mugs. He pushed one toward you.

“I didn’t ask,” you muttered, without looking up.

"This is hot chocolate with cinnamon. Drink up, or the lines on your layout will soon turn into zigzags from the cold."

You cupped your hands around the mug. Warmth slowly flowed through your veins.

— Your project... that bridge. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. Nice symmetry.

Silas froze, looking you straight in the eyes for the first time that day.

— Really? And I thought you thought my work was boring geometry.

"Boring. But high-quality," you said, with a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips.