In the Space Between Us

Chapter 2: Small Talk, Big Feelings

Tuesday tasted like stale coffee and regret.

Ethan sat in the corner of The Third Cup, a café that smelled permanently of burnt beans and damp wool. It was raining outside a relentless, gray drizzle that turned the city into a watercolor painting left out in the yard.

He had a sketchbook open in front of him, but the page was blank save for a few aggressive lines that were supposed to be the framework of a staircase. He was an architect, technically. Junior associate. Which meant he spent most of his days designing bathrooms for rich people who wanted their toilets to look like sculptures.

He wasn't thinking about bathrooms. He was thinking about the balcony.

Three days had passed since the party. He hadn't seen her since. He hadn't even asked for her number, a fact that Jasper had reminded him of approximately forty times since Sunday morning.

“You met a girl who hates parties at a party, and you let her walk away?” Jasper had said, throwing a pillow at him. “That’s not introversion, Ethan. That’s self-sabotage.”

Ethan tapped his charcoal pencil against the table. The table wobbled. He hated wobbling tables. He reached down to shove a folded napkin under the leg, and when he straightened up, the chair across from him was being pulled out.

“Is this seat taken, or are you reserving it for your brooding aura?”

Ethan jolted, his knee hitting the underside of the table. Coffee sloshed over the rim of his mug.

Mika was standing there.

She looked different than she had at the party. The black dress was gone, replaced by an oversized beige trench coat that was soaked through at the shoulders. Her hair was a chaotic halo of frizz from the humidity, and she was juggling a wet umbrella, a heavy-looking tote bag, and a steaming paper cup.

“Mika,” Ethan said. It came out more like a question than a greeting.

“The one and only,” she said, wrestling with her umbrella until it collapsed with a defeated snap. “Every other table is full. I checked. I even considered sitting with the guy near the window, but he’s aggressively eating a muffin and it’s scary. Do you mind?”

“No,” Ethan said, quickly moving his sketchbook to make room. “Sit. Please.”

She collapsed into the chair, exhaling a long breath that puffed her bangs up. “I hate rain. I know that’s not a unique opinion, but I feel like I need to state it for the record. It’s wet, it ruins my shoes, and it makes the bus smell like wet dog.”

“It’s good for the plants,” Ethan offered.

Mika stared at him deadpan. “Are you a plant, Ethan?”

“No.”

“Then we can agree it sucks.” She took a sip of her coffee and grimaced. “Ugh. Too hot. Burned my tongue. Great start.”

Ethan watched her. She was a whirlwind of small movements—adjusting her coat, checking her phone, blowing on her coffee. She was vibrant in a way that made the gray afternoon feel brighter, but he noticed the way her fingers tapped anxiously against the paper cup.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Do you live around here?”

“I work two blocks over,” she said, gesturing vaguely north. “Event planner. Or, ‘Assistant to the Event Planner,’ which basically means I carry clipboards and get yelled at when the hydrangeas are the wrong shade of periwinkle.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow. “You hate mingling, but you plan events?”

“Irony is my brand,” she said, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at her lips. “It pays the bills. Plus, I’m good at organizing chaos. I just don’t like being in the chaos.” She nodded at his sketchbook. “What about you? Are you drawing a masterpiece, or just aggressive lines?”

“Aggressive lines,” Ethan admitted. “I’m an architect.”

“Oh,” Mika’s eyes widened. “Fancy. You build skyscrapers?”

“I design guest bathrooms for people who have more money than taste.”

Mika laughed. It was that same rasping, genuine laugh he remembered from the balcony. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “So, we’re both living the dream then. Bathrooms and hydrangeas.”

“Living the dream,” he echoed.

They fell into a lull. It wasn't the heavy, charged silence of the balcony. This was lighter, but there was still something underneath it. A hum of awareness. Ethan found himself tracking the way a drop of rain traced a path down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away. The impulse was so sudden and specific it terrified him.

Don’t, he told himself. Don’t start this.

“So,” Mika said, her voice dropping an octave, becoming softer. “Did you survive the rest of the party?”

“Barely. Jasper found the tequila.”

“Ah. The lethal weapon.”

“And you?” Ethan asked. “Did you escape the ice-juggling Noah?”

Mika’s smile faltered. It was a micro-expression, gone in an instant, replaced by her usual brightness, but Ethan caught it. A flicker of annoyance? Or sadness?

“Noah is… Noah,” she said carefully, tracing the rim of her cup. “He’s a lot. We’ve known each other since diapers. He thinks he owns the rights to my attention.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is,” she admitted. She looked up, locking eyes with him. “It’s nice to sit with someone who doesn’t demand anything. You’re very… low maintenance, Ethan. I mean that as a compliment.”

“I’ll take it.”

“You’re just…” She waved a hand at him. “Quiet. You listen. Most guys interrupt me three times by now to tell me about their crypto portfolio or their gym routine.”

“I don’t go to the gym,” Ethan said. “And I don’t understand Bitcoin.”

“Marry me,” she joked.

It was a throwaway comment. A joke. But the words hung in the air between them, heavy and absurd. Mika’s eyes widened slightly, as if she hadn’t meant to say it.

Ethan felt a heat rise up his neck. “I think we should probably date first. Standard protocol.”

Mika laughed, but she looked down at her coffee, hiding her face. “Right. Protocol.”

She checked her watch and groaned. “I have to go. The bride-to-be is expecting me to have opinions on napkin folds, and if I’m late, she might actually eat me.”

She stood up, gathering her wet umbrella and tote bag. The energy at the table shifted instantly. The bubble was popping. She was leaving, and the "space between them" was about to become physical distance again.

Say something, Ethan’s mind screamed. Ask for her number. Ask if she wants to see a movie. Ask anything.

But his tongue felt like lead. The old fear—the memory of the last time he had put himself out there, the memory of the shouting and the door slamming—paralyzed him.

Mika hesitated. She stood by the table, looking down at him. She was waiting. He knew she was waiting.

“Well,” she said, her voice a little tight. “Good luck with the bathrooms, Ethan.”

“Good luck with the napkins, Mika.”

She offered a small, awkward wave and turned to leave.

Ethan watched her walk toward the door. He saw the slump of her shoulders, the way she braced herself before pushing out into the rain.

Coward, he thought.

The door chimes jingled as she pushed it open.

“Wait!”

The word tore out of his throat before he authorized it.

Mika stopped, holding the door open with her hip. She looked back, eyebrows raised, wet hair plastered to her forehead.

Ethan scrambled to stand up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. He felt ridiculous. He felt alive.

“I…” He didn’t know what to say. He held up his phone, feeling like a teenager. “I don’t have your number. In case… you know, you need to vent about napkins.”

Mika stared at him for a second. The rain was blowing in, misting her face. Then, a slow, real smile spread across her face. Not the armor. The real thing.

She walked back to the table, took his phone from his hand, and typed quickly.

“There,” she said, handing it back. “Emergency napkin hotline. Open 24/7.”

“Thanks,” Ethan said, staring at the contact name she’d entered: Mika (Not a Plant).

“See you around, Ethan.”

“See you.”

This time, when she walked out into the rain, she didn't look like she was bracing herself against the world. She looked like she was just walking through it.

Ethan sat back down. His coffee was cold. His sketch was still blank. But his heart was hammering a rhythm against his ribs that felt dangerously, terrifyingly like hope.

He looked at the empty chair across from him. The space was still there, but for the first time, it didn't feel empty. It felt like room for something to grow.