Closing shifts always felt heavier than opening ones.
The café lights dimmed one by one as the clock neared midnight, shadows stretching across the tiled floor like tired limbs. Jayla wiped down the last counter, her movements slower now than they had been hours earlier. The kind of slow that came from bones, not muscles.
Cameron sat in his usual seat, hood down tonight, hair mussed like he’d run his hand through it a hundred times while writing. His notebook sat open in front of him, ink fresh and dark across the page. He hadn’t touched his drink for nearly an hour — too lost in whatever rhythm lived inside him.
Jayla pretended not to notice him lingering.
He pretended he wasn’t waiting for her.
When she finally untied her apron and grabbed her faded backpack, she flicked the lights
