Nolan always arrives first, but he doesn’t open up. Not because he’s lazy — on the contrary, he comes early to work in silence.

Since he has morning classes and I only know pastry, he leaves the lunches ready for me to just heat up. I know this because the moment I push the door open, the smell of spices hits me like the first light of the sun.

It’s a harmony he created for me, even though I’d prefer he didn’t go to so much trouble.

I tied my green apron in front of the glass display case, looking at the pastries inside.

"What if I ask Nolan for a flan?" I shook my head. "If I do, he’ll definitely give it to me."

I finished tying the bow knot, completing the look with a cap bearing Nolan’s logo — a coffee cup with an N in the middle.

"Very original," I smiled, laughing a little.

I don’t usually wear the full uniform, but doing so reminded me of that day. We didn’t buy it by chance, since there’s no such thing as a uniform here.

I chose it for his eyes.

Nolan has gray-green eyes that shift with the light. The way he painted the café in my shade, I paint myself in his. It’s like wearing his gaze on me all day.

I brought down the chairs. Turned on the coffee machine. Ran the cloth over the bar. All to keep being employee of the month, even though I’m the only employee.

"I’m done — I deserve a break," I whispered, turning toward the kitchen.

I could hear the clatter of spoons and pans. He cooks with an artistic violence that fascinates me, so I tiptoed over to collect my respective reward. I opened the door slowly, listening to the high-pitched hinges, and stayed in the doorway for a moment.

There are things that look better when the person doesn’t know you’re watching.

The back of Nolan’s neck, the way his shoulders tense, the concentration he gives to ordinary things as if they were the most important in the world. He looks so perfect.

"Are you going to stand there or are you going to help me?" said my magician without turning around.

I’ve always thought he has a radar that only picks up my frequencies — I love that.

"You never let me admire you in peace," I answered. "Do you have any idea how much effort it took me to walk in without making so much noise?"

"That doesn’t count as effort."

"It does to me. Every step I take without drawing your eyes is a sacrifice."

He turned with that half-smile that undoes me, pointing toward the counter with his spoon.

"Your coffee is ready. And there are cookies in the oven — in ten minutes you take them out and help yourself to as many as you like."

I left the kitchen and found my coffee in the exact spot where I always leave his. The same temperature. The same ratio.

He watched me. He thought. And that small observation was enough to make Wednesday feel like a triumph.

He came out of the kitchen untying his apron, hanging it on the hook by the door in front of the old white wall.

"I’m going to get changed. You try to enjoy your lunch."

I nodded, taking a sip of the coffee, waiting to hear the click of the lock. Then I looked at the table.

Nolan had left two plates covered with aluminum foil. I uncovered them. His had rice with sautéed vegetables and ginger chicken, well presented, with that care he gave to every plate.

Mine was different. Tomatoes sliced paper-thin, so fine they were almost transparent, arranged in a circle over the rice with each slice slightly overlapping the one before, like the petals of a flower opening from the center. A reduced sauce traced the edge of the plate in a thin, dark, unbroken line. In the center, a basil leaf served as a stem.

I don’t eat meat. Nolan knows — he never puts it on my plate. I’m not strictly vegetarian; I can bring myself to eat meat when there’s no other option, it’s just that my stomach is sensitive and it always gives me a stomachache from how heavy it can be.

What did unsettle me was the thought of Nolan stopping cooking for me with such care — because that care made me want to keep the plate rather than eat it.

"Unforgivable," I whispered. "How is a woman going to leave her man without a lunch made by her own hands."

I covered it back up.

I took the bread from the display case. I may not know how to cook, but I know how to mark my territory. Butter to toast it, mayonnaise for flavor, the leftover ham and the cheese Nolan keeps on the second shelf. A sandwich made by my hands — which is the only thing that matters.

"It’s not like I’m some helpless little girl," I wrapped it in a napkin. "I’m a woman. His woman."

Nolan always takes exactly seven minutes to get changed. From the moment he goes in to the moment he comes out in his school uniform with his backpack on his left shoulder. It gave me just enough time to finish his packed lunch.

I left it on the counter just as I heard his footsteps. He came out in his school uniform, his hair barely combed.

He looked at me. He looked at the wrapped lunch. He looked at the table with the untouched plates.

"Ryne," he called, and I hid behind the lunch.

"What?" I asked, tilting my head.

"Did you eat?"

"I’m fine, I can eat later." I grabbed his coffee and put it in his hand, and without meeting his eyes I said, "But you have to go to school and I don’t. So you go first."

"That’s not what I asked," he pointed at the table with a furrowed brow. "I made lunch for both of us this morning, Ryne. Why aren’t you eating yours?"

"Because I like making it for you," I answered plainly, holding his gaze. "I know I don’t cook like you. I know yours was better. But I like knowing you’re leaving with something my hands touched."

Nolan lowered his arms. He stood looking at the little package with my fold, and something in his face softened. He’s predictable in a way I find endearing — like animals that follow the same path without knowing why.

"Alright, Mom," he said with a laugh.

"It’s alright?"

"Yes, it’s alright," he shrugged with a half-smile. "If that’s what you want, you can make my lunch."

I crossed my arms. "If you say it like that I don’t feel like it anymore."

He set his coffee on the counter and took my hand. "I knew you’d get annoyed if I said that, so here’s the deal — if you make mine," he lifted my hand and kissed it, "I’ll make yours."

"That’s basically the same thing you were already doing."

"I was only cooking your plate because I didn’t have time for mine," he pointed out. "Besides, now it’s official." He held out his other hand. "Deal?"

"Sounds fair — just don’t curse the agreement, little wizard."

I shook his hand. He didn’t let go right away. He held it with a warmth that made me want to close my eyes and, maybe, give him my first kiss.

I leaned in carelessly, and it happened. In the movement, the cuff of my sweater slid up.

The bandages were exposed in front of him, at the worst possible moment.

Nolan’s smile didn’t disappear, but it changed into something different. He looked down, then up with a furrowed brow, and in that transition I saw everything. The worry settling into his eyes like a light turning on.

I pulled free from his grip, hiding them again. "You—" I tried to say, but my voice didn’t want to answer. "You weren’t supposed to see that..."

I stood completely still, my back to him, unable to face him.

Now what would he think of me, of my purity. Of the color he had given me.

I would be rejected again, excluded by the world.

The noise came back with the force of a hurricane, filling my vision with white shadows. I had exactly one second to decide what story this was.

"Ryne," he hugged me from behind, his hands wrapping completely around my waist. "Tell me what happened, what happened to you. I’m listening."

The tears arrived just in time — real or false, they work the same.

"It was yesterday," I said without looking at him. "I wanted to surprise you. I went to look for the alley cat you liked so much — I thought if I brought him in and cleaned him up a little, maybe we could adopt him. Name him Little Shoes, the way you would have."

"Ryne..." he held my hand tighter. "Don’t stop."

I looked at his beautiful green eyes, shining with that force he only used in important moments.

"Turns out he had more energy than I expected, and his scratches really did hurt," I continued, letting my voice tremble at the edges. "He got away anyway. I haven’t seen him all morning. I suppose he decided we weren’t to his liking. I didn’t want to tell you because I saw how much you liked that cat, and because of me he’s not coming back." The tears slid down my cheeks to my chin, falling right onto his hands. "I’m sorry — it was all my fault."

"Ryne!" he interrupted. "Don’t cry — I could never blame you for that." He turned me around, looking into my eyes, sliding his thumb across them, wiping away the tear. "I know you had good intentions." He kissed my forehead. "That’s why I’m grateful to you. You’re a good girl."

"Thank you, Nolan." I hugged him, resting my face against his chest.

"Let me see them," he said, stroking my hair. He carefully uncovered my arms, examining the bandages. His thumbs passed over them without pressing down. "Does it hurt?"

"Not as much anymore," I lied. But I enjoyed his concern. "Although we could look at it another way. Now we match a little more."

His expression showed no enthusiasm for my idea. "Don’t say that, Ryne. I wouldn’t like to think you’re a masochist or anything like that."

I shook my head and hands at the same time. "N-no, don’t think that — it was just a sudden thought. I really don’t like pain. I just wanted to lighten the moment, you know, with a joke even if it was in bad taste."

He looked up and held my gaze for a moment with a tenderness I recognized as mine — only mine — before leaning down and kissing my forehead again, while running his hand through my hair.

"Thank you for what you did with the cat. You didn’t have to do that for me."

"I know I didn’t," I answered, recovering my smile. "That’s why I did it."

"Someday we’ll adopt a cat with little yellow paws and we’ll call him Waterproof Little Shoes. I promise."

I nodded, letting him believe it was his idea.

"Now go study," I told him, nudging him gently toward the door. "And bring me a gift when you come back."

"Now you’re giving me orders?"

"I always have. It’s just that now I’m a patient, so you have to obey."

He laughed. He grabbed his backpack, my sandwich, and his coffee, and left with his hand raised without looking back. I watched him until he turned the corner, feeling the morning cold remind me that that part of the performance was over.

This is the love I have always looked for — one that stains me the way I stain my sweater — and Nolan does it: he stains me white, in his color.

I went back inside. Setting aside Nolan’s carefully prepared lunch, I ate a piece of bread with lettuce instead. I didn’t throw it out. I kept it in the refrigerator. But I never ate it.

There are things about Nolan I prefer to preserve rather than consume.

"And why didn’t you eat it, Miss Moore?" asked the doctor, breaking my trance.

I looked at my hands on the seat.

"Because that plate had his effort in it," I answered with a cold smile. "And I prefer that he make the effort for me — not that I benefit from it. Do you understand the difference?"

The doctor didn’t write anything down.

I didn’t expect her to understand, either.

After all, few people understand what true love is. One where you give everything without limits or judgment. Because you know the other person deserves it.