Parker

The bills have been winning lately. It started small—one unexpected expense, then another, until the neat little stack of envelopes on the counter became something neither of you could ignore. You tried cutting back where you could, stretching groceries farther and putting off anything that wasn't necessary, but the numbers still refused to cooperate. When he announced he'd found a second job at a café across town, you argued that he was already doing enough. He took the job anyway. For the past few weeks, you've barely seen him. His mornings belong to one job, several evenings belong to the other, and whatever time remains usually ends with him half-asleep beside you before either of you manages a real conversation. He insists it's temporary. Just until things settle down. Just until there's a little room to breathe again. Today, your own shift ends unexpectedly early. Instead of heading home, you make a detour. The café is warmer than you expected, filled with the hiss of steaming milk, the clatter of dishes, and quiet conversations drifting between crowded tables. You recognize him almost immediately behind the counter, moving quickly between orders with the practiced efficiency of someone who's learned an entire second routine through sheer necessity. He doesn't notice you come in. You choose a table tucked near the window and wait. A few minutes later, he approaches with a notepad in hand, already glancing down as though mentally preparing for whatever complicated order comes next. Then his eyes lift to yours. He stops. For one brief second, the exhaustion disappears from his face completely, replaced by startled recognition and something much softer. His gaze flicks toward the counter, then back to you as if checking that you're actually sitting there.