There's a particular hour in the day where the world becomes quieter—not because people stop moving, but because everything seems to move without noise. It's in that hour, nestled somewhere between late afternoon and early evening, that the sun spills golden onto pavement, and shadows begin to stretch like they're trying to remember something. That's when Zoey arrives.
She doesn't walk in like she owns the place. She walks in like the air was waiting for her. And maybe it was.
I'm behind the counter again, trying to figure out if the espresso machine is sputtering from age or just from how I treat it. Probably both.
Zoey gives me a look—the kind that doesn't demand conversation, but doesn't reject it either. She always seems to exist in that in-between. Not cold, not warm, but somehow more present than anyone else in the room.
"I read your recommendation," she says quietly, fingers trailing the spine of a paperback she pulled from her coat. It's worn. Loved. "You undersold it."
My lips twitch. "Would you have taken it seriously if I oversold it?"
She tilts her head, considering me in that way she does, like she's turning my words over in her mind to see if they're worth responding to. "Probably not."
There it is again—that sense that we're always dancing a step behind the truth. Close, but not quite touching it.
She orders the same thing she always does—though today, she adds, "Make it a bit sweeter."
"Rough day?"
Zoey doesn't answer right away. Instead, she slips into the seat near the window, resting the book between her palms. Her profile catches the light, obsidian eyes reflecting the fading sun, black hair soft around the curve of her cheek. If melancholy had a shape, maybe it would look a little like her—beautiful in a way that doesn't ask to be looked at, but is impossible to ignore.
I bring her drink a few minutes later and sit across from her without asking. It's not against the café rules, but even if it were, I'd probably still do it. There's something about the space we create between us that makes the rules feel optional.
She looks up. "No apron?"
"Break."
Her gaze lingers. "You should wear a name tag."
"I don't like labels," I say, then pause, thumb brushing against the edge of the table. "But if you're asking my name… it's Akash. Akash Caelum."
She raises an eyebrow. "You're not just making that up?"
"If I were, would it sound cooler or dumber?"
She leans back slightly, a smile ghosting over her lips. "Somewhere in between. Still better than Barista Guy."
I laugh, and it feels good—like unclenching something I didn't know had been tight. "What about you? Do I get a name, or should I keep calling you Espresso with a Secret?"
She hesitates, and there's something different in the way her fingers press against the mug now. Like the name is something heavier than it should be.
"Zoey," she finally says. "Zoey Noctelle."
It settles between us like a breath that had been held too long. There's a soft weight to it, like it's been carefully guarded. A name that doesn't just identify but reveals—slightly, purposefully. Like the edge of a page lifted, but not yet turned.
"Noctelle," I repeat. "It suits you."
She raises an eyebrow. "Mysterious and vaguely poetic?"
"Sounds like someone who belongs in a story."
The smile that touches her lips this time is quieter, more real. "Maybe I do."
We fall into silence again, but it's not uncomfortable. It's the kind of quiet you share when there's nothing left to prove. Just presence. Just people. Just being.
"You ever think about why people write under pen names?" she asks after a long moment, eyes distant, like she's looking out the window but not really seeing the street beyond.
I nod slowly. "To protect something. Or to hide. Maybe both."
She hums. "Or to create someone they wish they were."
I watch her carefully. "Are you talking about writers or readers?"
She doesn't answer, and I don't push. I know when she's pulling away again—when the door inside her starts to close just enough that you can still see the light through the crack, but not enough to walk through.
But before the silence turns into retreat, she says, "Akash Caelum is a strange name."
I smirk. "So is Zoey Noctelle."
She lifts her mug in a quiet salute. "Touché."
The clock behind the counter ticks softly. The café is nearly empty now, and the light has turned that dusky blue that always feels like it's balancing between goodbye and stay a little longer.
I don't ask her what she's working on. I don't ask why her fingers tremble slightly when she pulls out her phone, eyes scanning something only she can see. I don't ask her why she hasn't revealed more about the stories she loves—especially the one she always mentions with a strange reverence.
But I think about it. I think about the way she speaks about that author. How her voice changes when she brings them up, like she's not just a fan, but something else. Something more personal.
Zoey Noctelle.
It lingers in my head longer than I expect it to. Not because it's a beautiful name. But because now that I know it, I can't unknow it.
And somehow… it makes the space between us feel more dangerous.