It’s the usual Wednesday — the one at the end of October when the air starts to bite and everyone’s already sick of midterms. The bell over the door jingles every few minutes, letting in cold gusts and strangers.

You’re three bites into a grilled cheese you didn’t really want when the chair across from you scrapes back.

Rowan’s wearing that faded gray sweater you’ve seen a hundred times — the one with the loose thread on the left cuff you always tell him to cut off but he never does. His hair’s a little messier than it was this morning, like he’s been running his hands through it all day.