They stepped out of the gallery, the door clicking gently shut behind them. The garden rustled faintly in the dark, and somewhere behind the trees, wind brushed over the low walls of the street.

  Adrian glanced toward the car.

  Mira shifted the tote on her shoulder and looked down the street—not at anything in particular, just the shape of the evening ahead of them. Then she said, simply:

  “Can we walk around a bit? Doesn’t feel like going back. If you’re not busy.”

  “I’m not.”

  They walked.

  The silence between them was the kind that settled gently, shaped by the rhythm of their steps and the fading sounds of the evening.

  A block or two down, the street curved into a narrow courtyard—flagstones under soft string lights, a few small tables scattered beneath a bare-limbed tree wrapped in quiet bulbs.

  At the far side, an open counter offered tea, rice bowls, and something warm that smelled like ginger and sesame.

  Mira slowed. Her gaze drifted across the scene.

  “This place looks kind of perfect,” she said.

  Adrian followed her eyes. Then, without hesitation:

  “Want to stop by?”

  She nodded. “Yeah.”

  And that was it.

  They stepped into the courtyard, found an empty table beneath the tree. The table between them held enough space for whatever would come next.

  A woman emerged from the small kitchen counter—linen apron tied over a thick-knit sweater, sleeves pushed to the elbow, hair loosely pinned back.

  Mira looked up with a soft smile. “Can we just get two light bowls? One with tofu, pickled things—whatever you have.”

  The woman nodded. “We have soft tofu with ginger rice and radish.”

  “Perfect.”

  Adrian said nothing until she turned to him, but when he did speak, it was with the same calm clarity. “Noodles in broth. Light herbs.”

  She nodded once, scribbled in her notepad, and returned to the warmth of the kitchen without a word.

  Mira settled into her seat, resting both elbows on the table.

  Her chin came to rest on her palms. She leaned forward slightly, studying Adrian with the kind of open curiosity that didn’t bother pretending to be subtle.

  He didn’t notice at first. Or pretended not to.

  She kept staring.

  Eventually, without looking at her, Adrian spoke. “What?”

  Mira blinked, still resting her chin on her hands. “Did anything happen to you today?”

  He glanced at her. “No.”

  “Are you upset?”

  “No.”

  “Sad?”

  Adrian turned to face her fully now. “Mira.”

  She didn’t flinch. “Just checking.”

  “Why?”

  She hesitated, then straightened a little, still resting her chin in her hands. “Because earlier, you were being ruthless. Annoying. Kind of boyish, if I’m honest.”

  “Kind of?”

  “And then you changed,” she continued, ignoring the interruption. “In the lab. You went full research mode. Not even a smirk.”

  “You were working with ethanol and glycerin,” Adrian said mildly. “I was preventing an explosion.”

  She waved a hand. “Then you were ruthless again, after catching the cockroach. And now we’re sitting here, and you’re doing your unreadable thing. So I’m wondering if you’ve been replaced. Or—” she squinted slightly, mock-serious, “—is there a chance you have multiple personalities?”

  Adrian didn’t blink. “Possibly.”

  “But no,” he added. “One personality. Just... adaptive bandwidth.”

  “Bandwidth?” she repeated.

  “You don’t behave the same way in a greenhouse as you do in a conference hall.”

  Mira studied him for another beat. “So what does that make you right now?”

  “Courtyard mode.”

  She snorted. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “You’re still staring.”

  “I’m doing a psychological profile,” she said sweetly. “For academic purposes.”

  Adrian’s lips twitched, faint and genuine, just as the waiter approached with two warm bowls and set them down carefully between them.

  Mira leaned forward, lifting her spoon. “Let’s see if a good meal helps your system reboot.”

  Adrian picked up his chopsticks. “Unlikely.”

  But he didn’t sound like he minded.

  They ate slowly, the courtyard holding its hush around them. Mira had her bowl half-finished, her cup of tea refilled once, then forgotten again as the soft chime of the music box continued from somewhere near the planter wall.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Mira rested her elbow on the table again, lips curved into a question.

  She waited until he was mid-bite before she spoke.

  “Can you read minds?”

  Adrian paused, chopsticks still in hand. He looked up at her slowly, brow lifting just enough to say: really?

  “And what is that now?” he said, as if she were reading headlines off a conspiracy blog.

  Mira answered, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “You just have that vibe. Like you know what someone’s about to say before they say it.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He set his bowl down and leaned back slightly. “Positive.”

  Mira leaned forward, both arms folded now on the edge of the table. “So you’ve never read mine?”

  Adrian didn’t answer right away.

  Then, eyes steady, voice low but certain: “There’s no need.”

  She blinked. “Why not?”

  “Your thoughts are written all over your face,” he said, calm as always.

  She sat back, eyes narrowing. “So you’re saying I’m predictable?”

  Adrian looked at her over the rim of his cup, deadpan. “I’m saying you’d make a terrible spy.”

  Mira scoffed. “Wow. Honesty and slander in one sentence.”

  “I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he added, finally letting the edge of a smile show. “You’re... efficient. Direct broadcast.”

  She shook her head, already grinning. “You’re lucky I’m too full to argue properly.”

  “I’m lucky you haven’t written me into an ethics complaint yet,” he said lightly, setting down his cup. “That’s the real miracle.”

  “It’s still on the table. Don’t tempt me.”

  Adrian sipped his tea. “Should’ve filed it three days ago. For harassment of a salamander.”

  She smirked. “Justice liked me.”

  “He imprinted,” Adrian said. “The rest of us were ignored. Or emotionally dismissed.”

  Mira smiled into her cup. “You’re jealous of a salamander.”

  “I’m concerned,” he replied. “That my social ranking is below a moist amphibian.”

  She gave him a slow, smug blink. “Maybe you should try being softer. Or glow in the dark.”

  “I’ll work on it.”

  She watched him for a second longer, head tilted.

  “Okay then,” she said, tapping her finger lightly against the table. “Which mode are you in now?”

  “Mode?”

  “Yes,” Mira said, leaning in. “There’s research mode. Conference mode. Ruthless tease mode. Courtyard mode.”

  Adrian considered that for a beat. Then, evenly: “Observation mode.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “You started it,” he said calmly. “With your case study.”

  Mira sat back, feigning dread. “Great. Now I’m under a microscope.”

  He shrugged. “You flinch. Like a Mimosa pudica. It’s very scientific.”

  She glared at him. “Good thing I’m too full to throw something.”

  Adrian’s mouth quirked—not quite a smile, but close. “Good thing I’ve retired from teasing.”

  She peered at him through her fingers. “This is retired?”

  He looked at her without answering.

  And somehow, without needing confirmation, Mira knew: this was him being calm. Careful. And maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t done teasing. He was just choosing which part of her he wanted to memorize next.

  But Mira didn’t let it go that easily. She kept her voice low, as if speaking from behind enemy lines. “Okay. So if you have modes… is there some kind of signal when you switch?”

  “Signal?”

  “Yes,” she said, folding her arms on the table. “Like—is there a warning? A flicker of the eyes? Do you turn thirty percent more dramatic before you enter menace mode?”

  He blinked once. “That’s oddly specific.”

  Mira nodded solemnly. “I’ve been taking notes.”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Maybe I use the salivary glands in my eyes. Like the lizards you like.”

  She stared. “Did you just say you saliva-switch between moods?”

  Adrian sipped his tea. “It’s a theory.”

  She exhaled, long and theatrical. “I need a chart.”

  “You want a full mood classification system?” he asked. “Color-coded?”

  “With timestamps,” she said. “And subtitles.”

  Adrian set his cup down. “Would wind chimes help?”

  “Yes. And a visible mood bar. Ideally with a gradient.”

  “I’ll contact the dev team.”

  She smiled, leaning back into her chair again, chin tilted to the stars just visible above the courtyard walls. “Honestly, I’m just trying to understand when the ruthless poking version of you turns into this... reserved cryptid.”

  Adrian watched her for a long moment, then asked,

  “And why are you trying to figure me out?”

  Mira blinked. “What?”

  He didn't relent, eyes locked on hers with unsettling intensity. "Feel interested in me?"

  For three heartbeats, the world narrowed to the space between them. Then her head cocked, and oh—there it was. That look that said she'd already mapped every possible outcome.

  “Well, obviously. You’re like something rare that wandered out of a high-security lab and decided to sit down across from me in a courtyard café. You talk like footnotes and silences. You switch moods like migrating birds. And every time I think I’ve mapped the pattern, you do something completely unexpected, like help me preserve a bundle of red leaves or tease me about salamanders and the cockroach. Of course I’m curious. I don’t know what you are. And I’m not sure if I should catalogue you or just sit here and wait to see if you disappear again.”

  There was a pause.

  Then Adrian asked, still calm:

  “And why do you have to wonder how to deal with me?”

  She blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes rolled up, then down, as if the answer might be hiding somewhere on the roof of the café or at the bottom of her cup. Her brows pinched together—clearly, visibly, thinking hard.

  “Uhmmmm…” she began, voice stretched like she was hoping something useful would land in her lap.

  Then finally, with a sigh that carried more confusion than defeat: “I don’t know.”

  Adrian’s face eased—not into a smirk, not into his usual deadpan—but something softer. His shoulders relaxed, and he let out a quiet laugh, low and breathless, like she’d just proven his point without even meaning to.

  Of course she didn’t know.

  She was curious, and she said it out loud, and every part of her face made it clear that she meant it—even if she didn’t understand it herself.

  Adrian didn’t press. He just sat there a moment longer, eyes on her, that rare laugh still somehwhere in the corners of his breath.

  The music box wound to its end with a soft, fading note. Around them, the courtyard had thinned—lights dimmer now, the world slipping toward stillness.

  Mira reached for her coat. “We should probably go before they start locking up and assume we’ve merged with the furniture.”

  Adrian stood, coat in hand. “Tragic end.”

  At the counter, he reached instinctively for his wallet, but Mira was faster—already tucking cash into the tray with a quick, decisive motion.

  “My treat,” she said simply. “You didn’t even want to come in, remember?”

  He looked at her, but didn’t argue. Just gave a small nod and followed her out as she pushed open the gate.

  They moved in sync—like the rhythm had already been set, and neither of them saw a reason to change it now.

  Mira settled into the seat, her coat tugged loosely around her, one arm resting against the window. Her head turned slightly toward him, chin propped on her sleeve, eyes on him—not directly, not demanding. Just watching.

  Her phone lit up with a string of notifications. She glanced at the screen, then let it fade without unlocking it.

  Outside, the streetlights slid across the glass in long, broken lines. Adrian drove like he always did—precise, deliberate, with the kind of attention that made every turn feel measured.

  Mira kept her gaze on him.

  Still wondering.

  Why she was curious. Why it mattered. Why, even now, she was trying to guess what mode he was in.

  She hadn’t asked out loud.

  But he spoke anyway—flat, composed, without glancing away from the road.

  “I’m in driving mode. It requires concentration.”

  Mira grinned. She looked at him, then looked away, still grinning, as if the answer had pleased her more than she’d admit.

  She leaned her forehead against the window, the blur of lights slipping across her reflection. Beside her, Adrian allowed himself a smile—brief, and entirely real.

  The car moved forward, like neither of them was quite ready for the night to end.

  ?