Your usual booth in the back is already occupied by a girl with a laptop and noise-canceling headphones, so you settle for a two-top by the window instead. You drop your bag on the second chair, marking your territory.

He always does. His own drink is black, something simple, and he wraps both hands around the cup like he's warming them even though it's not cold. His sleeves are pushed up, forearms bare. He looks tired in a soft way, like he stayed up too late reading and forgot to eat.