Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

We’re not pretending, but we’re still cautious.

The kitchen smelled faintly of garlic and impending panic.

Carla stood over the stove like it had insulted her. The risotto was doing its slow, smug simmer thing. She stirred it with more force than necessary. Every grain of rice felt like a judgment.

On the counter, she'd laid out the salad ingredients in neat rows. Baby arugula. Shaved fennel. A small bowl of citrus segments that looked overly cheerful. The lemon vinaigrette sat in a jar she had labeled like a lunatic an hour ago. "Just in case I forget what it is," she muttered aloud to no one.

She stepped back, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and checked her phone. No new messages from Bérénice. Not that she had expected any. Bérénice was punctual in a terrifyingly elegant way. She would arrive at 7:30 on the dot. Carla had fourteen minutes left to pretend she was naturally composed and not frantically trying to curate an aesthetic that screamed effortless intimacy.

The table was set. Two plates, matte black with a chip on the underside she hoped Bérénice wouldn't notice. Cloth napkins she had absolutely ironed. A candle she lit, then blew out, then lit again. She shifted the silverware slightly to the left, then back to the right.

Her phone buzzed.

Élodie.

She opened the message and stared at a meme of a collapsed soufflé with the caption:

this is you tonight. but make it gay.

Carla groaned and typed back

You’re fired.

Three dots. Then:

You can’t fire me, I’m the only reason your café still exists. And anyway you’ve been in love with her for six months, so maybe try not panicking about fennel?

Carla didn't respond. She put the phone face down and turned back to the stove. Stirred. Tasted. Added salt. Stirred again. She reached for the wine she had bought specifically because the label looked French enough that Bérénice might approve. It wasn’t chilled properly. She put it in the freezer for five minutes, knowing full well she would forget it.

She paused at the table and looked over the whole setup. It felt staged. Performative. Like she was auditioning for the role of domestic lesbian with an open emotional range. She pulled the candle back off the table and stuck it in the cabinet under the sink.

Better.

The knock on the door came exactly when it should have. Carla’s heart thudded once, hard, then settled into something quieter. Still anxious. Less cinematic.

She wiped her hands one last time, crossed the apartment in three too-fast steps, and opened the door.

Bérénice stood there in a long coat, cheeks just touched pink from the cold. She held up a bottle of wine and a paperback with an apologetic half-smile.

"One of these is to make us charming," she said. "The other is in case the conversation dies."

Carla took both and stepped aside. "You really came prepared."

"I’ve had dinner with people who panic over fennel before."

Carla blinked. "Did Élodie text you?"

Bérénice raised an eyebrow, walked inside, and set her coat over the back of a chair without being asked. She moved like someone who already belonged here. Like the room had softened the moment she walked in.

Carla closed the door behind her and exhaled.

In the kitchen, the risotto had started to stick. She swore under her breath, hurried to rescue it. Bérénice followed, surveying the space like she was cataloging it for some private archive.

"I see the candle has been hidden," she said lightly.

"It was too much," Carla said. "Too... atmospheric."

"I like atmospheric."

Carla stirred with too much focus. "Yeah, well. I like fennel, apparently."

There was a beat of silence that wasn’t uncomfortable. Just charged.

Then Bérénice leaned against the counter, arms folded, and said, "Whatever you made, it smells like safety."

Carla nearly dropped the spoon.

"Let’s eat before I ruin it," she said, trying for casual. She did not succeed.

But Bérénice smiled. Quietly. Like she knew exactly how much of this was curated effort, and how much of it was just Carla, trying.

And choosing.

Chapter Text

The morning began like any other.

Carla opened Le Matin Noir at seven-thirty sharp, sleeves rolled, head slightly aching from too little sleep and too much lingering thought. The espresso machine hissed like it always did. The scones were a little overbaked but forgivable. Élodie arrived five minutes late with sunglasses and no apology.

“Full moon,” Élodie said, tying her apron at the waist. “Expect tears. Or poetry. Possibly both.”

Carla grunted. She pulled two double shots, one for herself, one for Élodie, slid the latter across the counter without looking. The first customers began to filter in. Students, freelancers, the retired man who brought his own teabag and asked for hot water with elaborate ceremony. The rhythm settled into its usual groove, measured out in orders and tamped coffee grounds.

At 10:15, the door chimed again.

Bérénice walked in, wearing that long navy coat and a scarf Carla recognized as her own. The sight of her, book in hand, smile tucked into the corner of her mouth, made Carla’s chest tighten in a way that felt both familiar and new.

“You’re early,” Carla said, trying not to sound too pleased.

“Had a meeting cancel. I thought I’d borrow your sunlight.”

She settled into her usual spot by the window. Opened her book. Tilted her head when Carla brought over her coffee without asking.

“Thanks.”

Carla only nodded. The scarf was still looped too loosely around her neck. The sleeves of the coat swallowed her hands. Everything about her made Carla feel off-balance and impossibly steady at once.

It was almost an hour later when it happened.

A regular named Jeanne came up to the register, sunglasses perched on her head, juggling a stroller, a croissant, and an iced oat milk latte. She leaned in conspiratorially, voice bright with sugar.

“So,” Jeanne said, glancing toward the window. “Are you two official now? Because honestly, it’s adorable.”

Carla’s entire body locked.

The espresso machine, mid-steam, let out a sharp hiss. Her hand jerked slightly. Foam sputtered across the counter.

She stared at Jeanne, blinking.

“What?”

“You and the bookshop girl,” Jeanne said, unfazed. “You’re always making each other laugh and pretending you’re not. It’s very cinematic.”

Carla’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Across the counter, Élodie slowly wiped a mug dry. Her expression remained neutral, but her left eyebrow had migrated significantly higher.

Jeanne, oblivious, chuckled and moved on, leaving behind the scent of rose perfume and chaos.

Carla stood frozen, pitcher still in hand, steam rising in curls. Her face was too hot. Her ears buzzed faintly.

Élodie set the mug down. Still watching her.

“Don’t,” Carla muttered.

“I did not say anything,” Élodie replied.

“You didn’t have to.”

She risked a glance toward the window. Bérénice was still reading, one leg tucked beneath her, entirely composed. If she had heard, she gave no sign. Her hand curled around her cup, turning it slightly. Carla knew that movement. Bérénice always did that when she was pretending not to listen.

For the rest of the morning, Carla moved on autopilot. She pulled shots, wiped counters, arranged pastries in neat diagonal rows. Every now and then, she looked over at Bérénice and found her still reading, still sipping, still pretending.

At noon, Bérénice stood. Returned her cup to the counter. Their fingers brushed when Carla reached for it.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Bérénice said, quiet.

Carla nodded. “Anytime.”

There was a pause. Just long enough to suggest a space where something else might fit.

Then Bérénice turned and left, the bell above the door chiming like a question.

Élodie leaned against the sink, arms crossed.

“So,” she said, after a beat. “Official, huh?”

Carla did not answer. She just stared at the espresso machine, as if it might offer an escape route or a better version of herself.

Élodie did not press. Not yet. But Carla could feel the weight of it in the silence. Something had shifted.

Later, when the café had emptied and the floor was swept, Carla walked over to the window table and picked up the abandoned napkin Bérénice had used. There was a line of handwriting along the edge.

She makes the bitter things bearable.

It could have been a note. Or a quote. Or nothing at all.

Carla folded it into her pocket. She did not ask. Not yet.

The silence settled in like a fog.

Not loud, not obvious. Just there. Hanging in the spaces between texts. Between touches. Between the way Carla handed over Bérénice’s coffee the next day without quite meeting her eye.

They had been fine. More than fine. They had eaten risotto and made out and fallen asleep wrapped around each other like it was a habit. And maybe that was the problem. It was starting to feel like something.

Something with shape and gravity and a center, unnamed.

The question had cracked something. Just a little. Enough.

Carla did not bring it up. She was excellent at not bringing things up. She swept around them like a practiced waitress maneuvering a crowded table. Avoid the plates. Keep the smile. Ignore the stain near the edge.

At La Liseuse, Bérénice didn’t press. She was good at quiet, too. Sometimes she thought that was why it worked, this almost-relationship they were building between coffee spoons and borrowed cardigans. Neither of them pushed. They just paused. Hesitated. Waited for the other to name the thing first.

But the thing had been named. By someone else. And now it hung in the air like perfume someone had walked through too many hours ago. Still traceable. Still there.

Wednesday morning, Carla delivered a fresh loaf of sourdough and lingered longer than usual by the new release table. Bérénice handed her a book before she could say anything.

“You’ll hate the ending,” she said. “But the first eighty pages are lovely.”

Carla looked at the cover. She smiled without showing her teeth. “Like us, then.”

Bérénice did not answer. She just wrapped the bread, wrote the date on the sticker with practiced efficiency, and slid it across the counter.

Carla hesitated. “Do you want to come by tonight? I could try that pasta thing again.”

“I thought we didn’t like the pasta thing.”

“You didn’t like the sauce. I maintain the pasta were excellent.”

That earned her a small laugh, the kind that curled at the edges. But it faded too fast.

“I can’t tonight,” Bérénice said. “Inventory.”

“Right. Another time, then.”

“Of course.”

It was civil. It was normal. It was not what it had been three days ago when Bérénice had slipped her hands under Carla’s shirt and laughed into her neck like she lived there.

Carla left with the book and the bread.

That night, she went home, made toast instead of dinner, and read thirty pages of the book. It was good. Not lovely, but good. She underlined a passage about the difficulty of starting again. Then she put it facedown and stared at the ceiling for longer than she intended.

Across the street, the bookstore light stayed on late.

At La Liseuse, Bérénice filed invoices and rearranged a shelf of translated poetry no one had asked for. She worked slowly, deliberately, rereading titles she already knew by heart.

The shop was quiet. The kind of quiet that felt heavier than silence.

Her phone buzzed once. Élodie, of all people.

Did you commit murder? Carla looks like she buried something.

Bérénice didn’t answer. She turned the volume down and lit a candle by the register.

She thought about the way Carla had frozen that day. About how fast the moment had evaporated from her face, replaced by distraction and espresso steam.

She had thought they were past pretending. Or maybe they had just never said out loud that they weren’t.

In her wallet, tucked behind an old train ticket, there was a folded scrap of paper. She slid it out now. Read it again.

And still, I will kneel at the altar of your ordinary.

Carla had quoted it during a slow night two months ago. Half-asleep, half-drunk on something sweet, curled into a café chair like she owned the air around her. Bérénice had written it down. Not for the words. For the way Carla had looked when she said them. Soft. Unafraid. Almost hers.

She folded the paper again. Tucked it back where it lived.

Then she picked up the returns bin, but didn’t shelve anything.

She just stood there, surrounded by spines and waiting.

The rain started somewhere around eight. One of those soft, misty drizzles that made the city sound further away. Bérénice left the shutters open anyway. She liked the way the drops traced the glass. Like punctuation. Like something unspoken landing softly on the edge of a thought.

The shop had been quiet all day. Carla hadn’t come by.

Not that she had expected her to. Not that she had wanted her to.

Except, maybe she had. And maybe that was the trouble. Wanting had never made things clearer. It just sharpened the blur.

She was curled on the velvet armchair behind the counter, legs folded, a blanket thrown across her knees. Her tea had gone cold half an hour ago, but she still held the mug. There was comfort in the weight of it.

In her lap: the small, battered notebook she only opened when the words felt too big for her head.

She didn’t write in it. Not tonight.

Instead, she reached for her wallet, drew out the folded paper, and opened it slowly. The creases were worn. The ink had smudged slightly at the edge, as if touched too many times.

And still, I will kneel at the altar of your ordinary.

It had been a joke, at first. A line from a poem Carla half-quoted, pretending not to care that Bérénice was watching her lips more than the words. They had been sharing a pastry. A lemon tart. Carla had wiped powdered sugar off Bérénice’s cheek with the corner of a napkin. Like it meant nothing. Like it meant everything.

Bérénice had carried the quote ever since. Not because it was profound, though it was. But because Carla had said it like it mattered. Like it could matter to someone like her.

Tonight, it felt heavier.

She turned the paper over. Blank on the back. Which somehow made it worse.

She had known Carla might freeze. Carla had always been good at hesitating in place. A kind of practiced stillness. She held her own emotions like she held hot coffee: close, careful, rarely spilling.

But still, Bérénice had thought they were getting somewhere. The risotto. The night on the couch. The way Carla had made space on her bookshelf without being asked.

She looked over at that shelf now. The Hours sat at the end, slightly crooked. Carla’s copy had slouched against the others like it belonged. Which maybe it did.

She picked up the notebook again. Still didn’t write.

Instead, she stood. Walked barefoot to the back room where she kept the small stack of returned books waiting to be processed. Her fingers moved over spines automatically. Then she stopped.

Carla’s handwriting on the checkout slip. A dog-eared cooy and barely cracked open. She remembered the day Carla had checked it out. No fanfare. Just a shrug and a “Needed something quiet.”

She tucked the paper scrap into the last chapter. No note. No explanation. Just the quote.

Not hers, but close enough.

Then she wrapped the book in tissue paper and slid it into a canvas tote. No sticker. No ribbon. No assumptions.

She would leave it at Le Matin Noir in the morning.

And if Carla read it, she would know.

Or she wouldn’t.

But either way, Bérénice had decided. She would not be the one to stay silent in the margins. Not again.

The morning rush at Le Matin Noir had thinned to its usual late lull: a handful of regulars with headphones, one poet with a fountain pen and an air of practiced discontent, and Carla behind the counter, pretending she wasn’t rereading the same to-do list three times.

She hadn’t seen Bérénice since Tuesday.

Not that there had been a falling out. Not exactly. Just an abrupt pause. Like someone had leaned too hard on the period at the end of a sentence that hadn’t quite finished.

She wiped down the espresso machine again. The chrome was already clean, but her hands needed something to do. Élodie had taken over the register and was humming a song Carla couldn’t place. Probably French. Probably pointed.

When the bell above the door chimed, Carla didn’t look up right away. She didn’t have to. The scent of citrus and rain-damp pages got there first. So did the silence.

She glanced up.

Bérénice stood just inside the threshold, a canvas tote in one hand, her expression unreadable but not cold. Her gaze swept over the café like it always did, pausing at the regulars, noting the poet’s mismatched socks, and finally settling on Carla.

Carla’s breath caught.

She managed a nod. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Bérénice echoed, and her smile was barely there, but it stayed.

They didn’t linger. A few quiet beats passed before Bérénice stepped forward, placed the tote gently on the edge of the counter.

“Return,” she said. Her tone was light. “No rush.”

Carla blinked. “Right. Sure.”

She reached for the bag like it was fragile. Like it might evaporate if she wasn’t careful. Inside: a familiar paperback wrapped in thin tissue. She didn’t open it there. She nodded again, already too aware of how warm her face had gone. Her fingers curled a little tighter around the canvas strap.

“Coffee?” she asked, before Bérénice could step back.

“Later,” Bérénice said. Her voice softened. “I just wanted to drop it off.”

Carla gave her a look that meant something like thanks and something else entirely.

Bérénice didn’t explain. She just touched two fingers to the counter and walked back toward the door, pausing for one final glance before she disappeared into the light.

The poet didn’t look up. Élodie, however, did.

“Was that what I think it was?”

Carla said nothing. Just retreated to the back, the book in hand, heart doing something uncomfortable in her ribs.

She waited until the storage room felt empty enough. Then peeled away the tissue. Her own checkout slip still tucked in the front. The pages soft with use. The smell of paper and something faintly floral.

She thumbed through it slowly. Her fingers stopped at the final chapter. And there it was.

Folded along the spine, a scrap torn from thick notepaper. In Bérénice’s handwriting:

I don’t know what this is. But I want it to keep going.

Carla sat down on an unopened box of oat milk and read the sentence again. And then again.

For a long time, she didn’t move.

That night, she walked across the street with a book under her arm and no umbrella. La Liseuse had already closed, but the lights were still on. Bérénice opened the door before Carla could knock.

Neither of them said anything at first. The moment hung like steam in winter air. Not fragile, exactly. Just full of weight.

Carla held out the book. A battered poetry collection this time. Her own margin notes like scattered breadcrumbs. A red circle around the final stanza. Inside the back flap, in careful script:

Then turn the page.

Bérénice looked at her.

Carla didn’t look away.

It was not a confession. Not a question. Just the truth, folded small between chapters.

They stood there in the doorway a little longer, not touching, not needing to.

And somewhere between the exchange of silence and pages, they both began to breathe a little easier.

Chapter Text

Saturday morning arrived already sun-warmed and indecisive. The sky kept flirting with the idea of cloud cover but never committed. Carla squinted up at it anyway, balancing her sunglasses on top of her head as they stepped into the blur of the farmer’s market.

She wasn’t usually a market person. Too much meandering. Too many toddlers with sticky hands and people earnestly discussing the mouthfeel of goat cheese. But Bérénice had suggested it with one of those not-quite-smiles, and Carla had said yes before her rational brain could lodge an objection.

Now she was watching Bérénice argue with a fruit vendor about the ethics of imported figs.

“It is not local,” Bérénice said, holding up the glossy purple specimen like a courtroom exhibit.

The vendor, a tan man in a tank top, looked tired. “It is organic.”

Bérénice gave a short laugh, polite but unswayed. “So is arsenic.”

Carla stood a few steps back, pretending to examine bunches of kale. She had no real interest in kale. She just needed somewhere to look that wasn’t the sharp line of Bérénice’s jaw or the way her hands moved when she was mildly indignant. It was oddly hot. And not just because of the sun.

She could feel her own smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. Half affection. Half exasperation.

Bérénice eventually returned the fig to its basket with the care of someone laying a metaphor to rest. She turned and found Carla watching her, not that Carla had been particularly subtle.

“Victory?” Carla asked.

“Not quite. But I made my point.”

“Which was what, exactly?”

“That the illusion of choice does not equal ethical consumption.”

Carla blinked. “And here I was, just looking for decent peaches.”

They wandered. Bérénice talked to flower sellers and elderly cheesemongers and one man with a harp who insisted his apricots were enchanted. Carla mostly trailed behind, collecting overheard fragments and trying to ignore how nice it felt to walk beside someone who spoke to strangers like it meant something. Like her presence made sense in a place full of chatter and sun-drunk air.

At one stall, Bérénice picked up a jar of honey and read the label like it held secrets. Carla leaned in over her shoulder.

“Thinking of getting it?”

Bérénice tilted her head. “Do you like lavender?”

Carla shrugged. “In theory.”

Bérénice handed it to her. “Then in practice.”

They kept walking, the jar tucked into Carla’s tote like an afterthought. She could still feel the residual warmth of Bérénice’s hand against hers. Not actual contact. Just proximity that lingered.

They stopped for lemonade near the far end of the market, where the crowd thinned and someone was selling handmade candles shaped like owls. Carla took a sip and winced.

“Too sweet?” Bérénice asked.

“Too nostalgic. This tastes like childhood birthdays. The kind with piñatas and a creepy clown.”

Bérénice raised an eyebrow. “You had clowns?”

“Briefly. My mother thought it would be character-building.”

There was a pause, the soft kind that invited follow-up and also respected the decision not to go there.

Instead, Bérénice looked at her with a little smile. “You’re doing very well, you know.”

Carla blinked. “At what?”

“This. Being out. Not scowling at strangers.”

“I’m not scowling.”

“You’re not. That’s what I mean.”

Carla narrowed her eyes. “Are you praising me or lightly mocking me?”

“Both.”

Carla smiled into her lemonade.

They made their way back slowly, passing a stand of overpriced berries and a woman selling earrings shaped like sea creatures. Bérénice stopped to admire a pair shaped like octopuses. Octopi. Whatever the plural was. Carla imagined them in Bérénice’s ears and had to look away for a second too long.

At one point, they passed a couple holding hands. Two women, one with a buzz cut and a canvas skirt. The other with braids and sunglasses too big for her face. They were laughing at something neither of them said aloud.

Carla felt Bérénice glance sideways. She didn’t reach out. Neither of them did. But the moment settled between them anyway. A question not asked. Not quite yet.

By the time they returned to the block, the sun had slipped slightly west and the streets had that early-afternoon quiet, like everyone was digesting something.

Outside Le Matin Noir, Carla paused.

“Want to come in?” she asked, voice casual.

Bérénice shook her head. “I should get back. Deliveries. Also I may have promised to alphabetize my travel essay section.”

“Thrilling.”

“Riveting.”

But she didn’t leave right away. They stood on the curb like people with too much to say and just enough restraint to say none of it.

Eventually, Bérénice reached over and plucked a leaf from Carla’s hair. Just a small green thing, curled at the edges.

“You walk like a forest,” she said.

“That’s not a real sentence.”

“Doesn’t make it wrong.”

Carla huffed a laugh, soft and self-conscious.

Then Bérénice leaned in, not quite a kiss, just a press of her forehead to Carla’s for the briefest second. A still point. A breath.

“I’ll see you soon,” she said.

Carla nodded.

And then Bérénice turned and crossed the street, steps light, like the afternoon had not left its weight on her shoulders.

Carla stayed where she was for a beat longer.

Then stepped inside to shelve honey beside the tea, her hands still sticky with something she did not know how to name.

Lucie arrived on Sunday, three hours earlier than expected, dragging a navy suitcase and wearing sunglasses far too large for the weather. She looked like she had just stepped off a mid-century film set or an especially well-lit scandal.

Bérénice spotted her first through the bookshop window and froze mid-shelving. Not in dread, exactly. Just recalibration. Carla, nearby with a broom and a half-formed joke about dust and character, paused when she caught the shift in Bérénice’s posture.

“Friend of yours?” Carla asked, already suspecting the answer.

Bérénice opened the door just as Lucie crossed the street without looking. Horns honked. She ignored them.

“Darling,” Lucie said, arms already spread. “You live. Thank God.”

Bérénice hugged her with something between amusement and surrender. “I texted you yesterday.”

Lucie pulled back, held her at arm’s length like she was inspecting a rare edition. “And yet seeing you in daylight is another thing entirely.”

Carla stood at the doorway of La Liseuse, broom still in hand, watching the reunion like someone peeking into a rehearsal that was somehow already opening night.

Lucie turned to her.

“You must be the barista.”

Carla raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”

“No. It’s an observation. You’ve got tragic eyes. And the posture of someone who alphabetizes their record collection.”

Bérénice coughed softly. “Lucie, this is Carla. Carla, this is Lucie, who I’ve known since university and who occasionally remembers basic manners.”

Carla offered a small smile. “Pleasure’s mine. You’re early.”

“I got bored. Lyon was too hot, my neighbor’s dog kept screaming at the wall, and I wanted to see what kind of trouble you’ve been up to.”

Lucie glanced around, then added, “Nice storefront. Understated. I approve.”

She wandered inside without waiting for permission, trailing silk and commentary. Bérénice sighed. Carla watched her, amused.

“She always like this?” Carla asked.

“Yes,” Bérénice said. “But also worse.”

They followed her in.

Lucie made herself at home with startling efficiency, shrugging off her coat, dropping her bag by the poetry shelves, and plucking a book at random. She did not seem to notice the delicate ecosystem of the shop, or maybe she simply did not care. Either way, Carla found it oddly refreshing.

They had tea in the little reading nook behind the counter. Lucie curled up like she owned the chair, one leg draped over the arm, her sunglasses still perched on her head. Carla made herself sit properly, though the cushion under her felt like it had opinions.

“So,” Lucie said after a sip. “How long have you two been not dating?”

Carla choked slightly on her tea. Bérénice did not look away from her cup.

“We’re…” Carla started, then stalled.

Bérénice offered, “Taking our time.”

Lucie raised an eyebrow. “Charming. Very French of you.”

Carla looked at Bérénice, who met her gaze evenly. No blush, no flinch. Just that quiet steadiness she did too well.

Lucie stretched, catlike. “I like it here. You two look like an indie film no one knows how to market. It’s very tender. Very confusing.”

“You’re making Carla uncomfortable,” Bérénice said, though not unkindly.

Carla shrugged. “Only a little.”

Lucie grinned. “Excellent. Then I’m doing my job.”

After tea, the afternoon blurred into shelves and soft jazz from the speakers. Lucie roamed the aisles like she was searching for something and found half of it in other people’s notes. She dog-eared a page, got scolded, and defended herself by quoting Anaïs Nin.

Bérénice rolled her eyes. Carla pretended not to laugh.

At one point, Carla offered Lucie a croissant from behind the counter. Lucie accepted it with the grace of royalty and said, “You’re growing on me.”

“Like a fungus?”

“Like a tragic poem.”

It was, somehow, a compliment.

That evening, the three of them sat on the steps outside the café, letting the last gold of the day melt across the pavement. Lucie talked about an exhibit she had curated, about a sculpture that looked like someone trying not to cry, and how people mistook it for something religious.

Carla listened. Bérénice did too, though her fingers brushed Carla’s knee once, lightly, as if to check if the moment was still real.

Eventually Lucie yawned and announced she needed to “unpack, shower, and pretend to sleep.” She stood, dusted off her pants, and kissed Bérénice on the cheek. Then turned to Carla, considered her for a beat, and said, “You’ve got a good thing here.”

Carla, thrown, nodded. “I know.”

Lucie winked. “Just making sure.”

And then she disappeared into the guest flat above La Liseuse, humming some half-familiar tune Carla could not quite place.

The silence after she left was a relief, but not in a bad way. Just space reclaiming itself.

Bérénice leaned back on her elbows. “Thoughts?”

“She’s magnetic. And terrifying.”

“She grows on you.”

Carla glanced toward the window Lucie had disappeared behind. “Like a tragic poem.”

Bérénice smiled. “Exactly.”

They sat a little longer as the sun slipped behind the buildings. Neither said anything more.

But in the pause, something small and unspoken settled between them. A new variable. A shift in temperature. Nothing to name yet. But noticeable.

The secondhand bookstore on Rue Voltaire smelled like dust and marjoram. Possibly incense. Possibly mildew disguised as something romantic. Bérénice claimed it was her favorite in the city, though Carla suspected that had more to do with the crooked shelves and handwritten signs than the actual stock.

Lucie trailed behind them with the disinterest of someone who had read everything already and been unimpressed.

The bell above the door gave a half-hearted clang as they entered. Carla let her fingers brush the spines along the first shelf. She always did that in secondhand places. Like greeting an old friend who never remembered her name.

Bérénice drifted left, toward the poetry. Lucie wandered into biography. Carla lingered between translated fiction and cookbooks, pretending to read but mostly watching the way Bérénice tilted her head as she skimmed titles.

They had not touched much since Friday. A knee here. A hand brushing past. The kind of closeness that was starting to feel like breathing, which scared Carla more than it should.

From somewhere in the back, Lucie called, “Do either of you want a copy of How to Be Alone? It’s signed. Or ironic. Possibly both.”

“No,” Bérénice replied without looking up.

“I might,” Carla muttered, barely audible.

Bérénice smiled, still facing the shelf.

They regrouped near the bargain bins. Lucie held a biography of a French sculptor with a cigarette burn across the back. Bérénice clutched a slim poetry collection with faded lilac edges. Carla had nothing yet. She kept changing her mind between a novel that looked quietly devastating and one with a cover that reminded her of Bérénice’s lipstick.

Lucie clocked this with one raised brow. “You’re overthinking it.”

Carla blinked. “I overthink everything.”

“True,” Lucie said. “But books are meant to be chosen in a fugue state. Like love. Or cheap wine.”

Carla did not answer. Bérénice did.

“She’s already chosen. She just hasn’t admitted it.”

Lucie tilted her head toward Carla. “Is that true?”

Carla handed her the poetry book.

“Fine,” she said.

They paid in coins and awkward smiles. The clerk looked like he had once been in a band that almost mattered. He barely looked up from his crossword.

Outside, the air had turned gold at the edges. Still warm, but the light was softer now. Less certain.

Across the street was a small public bench half-swallowed by ivy and the scent of overripe figs from the nearby grocer’s stall. Bérénice nodded toward it. They crossed.

Lucie perched on the arm of the bench and pulled out her phone with the theatrical sigh of someone preparing to be ignored. Bérénice and Carla sat. Close, but not quite touching.

“Do you want to hear something ridiculous?” Bérénice asked, pulling one earbud from her coat pocket.

Carla nodded. “Always.”

Bérénice handed over one side, then pressed play. Some soft-spoken French singer murmured over delicate piano. Carla closed her eyes briefly. The sound settled under her ribs.

Lucie did not say anything, but Carla could feel her watching. Not unkindly. Just curious.

They sat like that for a while. A shared headphone. A cracked spine of silence. The occasional gust of wind tugging at Carla’s scarf, which had become Bérénice’s scarf at some point last week and neither of them had addressed it.

When the song ended, Bérénice didn’t move. Neither did Carla. They just sat. Forearms brushing. Not looking.

Lucie cleared her throat. Loudly.

Carla opened her eyes.

Lucie grinned. “You two are very subtle. Like a foghorn in a church.”

Carla flushed. Bérénice removed the headphone and tucked it away.

“Do you mind?” Carla asked.

Lucie shrugged. “Not at all. It’s charming. Watching people fall in love. I just prefer when they’re aware of it.”

Bérénice stood and stretched. Her hip cracked. Carla found it ridiculously endearing.

Lucie fell into step beside her as they began walking again. Carla followed, one step behind, hands deep in her coat pockets.

They passed the same fig vendor from the market, who waved at Bérénice with the kind of reverence reserved for either saints or particularly sharp customers.

“You argued with him yesterday,” Carla said.

“I made a point,” Bérénice corrected.

Lucie snorted. “You flirt like a Marxist.”

Carla laughed before she could stop herself. Bérénice just smiled.

They rounded the corner toward Le Matin Noir. The café lights were off. The window still carried the ghost of last week’s display: a stack of books, a cup of coffee gone cold. Someone had scrawled “open late” in white chalk below it.

Lucie paused, glanced between the two of them.

“Do I need to get a hotel?” she asked.

“No,” Bérénice said, immediately.

Carla added, “You’re not in the way.”

Lucie gave her a look that might have been pity or amusement.

“No,” she said. “But I might be the mirror.”

She disappeared inside before Carla could ask what she meant.

Bérénice lingered at the door. Carla beside her.

“Is she always like that?” Carla asked.

Bérénice’s gaze was soft. “Lucie is the kind of person who makes other people tell the truth. Even if they didn’t mean to.”

Carla swallowed. “And us?”

“We’re still reading,” Bérénice said.

Then she unlocked the door and let them both inside.

Monday crept in gently, grey-skied and slow-moving. Carla opened the café fifteen minutes later than usual and pretended it was on purpose. She moved like someone remembering how to be alone in a space that no longer quite felt like hers alone.

The scarf was in her coat pocket.

Soft, pale grey wool with a barely visible thread of plum along the fringe. It still smelled faintly of Bérénice’s shampoo, something with bergamot and cedar. Carla paused halfway through shrugging on her apron and let herself hold it for a beat too long.

She didn’t text her.

Instead, she folded it carefully and placed it behind the counter next to the stack of receipts she was never going to file.

Midmorning sunlight filtered through the front windows in long, hesitant streaks. The air smelled like cinnamon and burnt milk. Carla moved through the opening routine on autopilot, tamping espresso grounds and wiping down the milk wand with the mechanical efficiency of someone not thinking about anything at all.

Which was, of course, a lie.

By ten, the place was halfway full. A few regulars, two students with headphones, and a couple who were either on their third date or their third argument. Carla made a note to water the ivy by the door and then ignored it.

When the bell above the door chimed, she didn’t look up at first.

Then she did.

Bérénice stood just outside, not coming in. Her coat collar was turned up, and the glass between them caught her reflection twice over. She looked tired in the way people do when they are trying not to be noticed.

Inside, Lucie was already seated in her usual corner, legs crossed at an impossible angle, scribbling something onto a napkin with one of Carla’s pens.

She did not look up when Bérénice lingered.

Carla wiped her hands on her apron and stepped out from behind the counter.

She opened the door. The bell clanged again. Louder this time.

“You’re just standing there,” Carla said. Not unkindly.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come in.”

Carla tilted her head. “Since when?”

Bérénice didn’t answer. Her eyes flicked past Carla’s shoulder toward Lucie.

“She’s here a lot,” Bérénice said.

“She likes the croissants,” Carla replied.

That earned her a small smile.

They stood like that for a moment, neither one stepping back nor forward. Then Carla said, “You left this.”

She reached into the pocket of her apron and held out the scarf. It was folded too precisely, as if it mattered.

Bérénice took it, but she didn’t put it on.

“I didn’t forget it,” she said. “I think maybe I wanted to see if you’d keep it.”

Carla’s throat tightened. “I didn’t even consider not keeping it.”

Bérénice’s eyes softened. “I know.”

A breeze caught her hair and tugged at the scarf in her hands. She stepped a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough to suggest the possibility.

“You know she’s been coming in here without telling me,” Bérénice said, tilting her chin toward the café. “She just shows up. Talks to Élodie. Orders the exact drink I hate.”

“She fits here,” Carla said, quiet.

“She fits everywhere.”

Carla studied the toes of her boots. “Are you worried?”

Bérénice looked at her. Really looked.

“No,” she said. “Not about her.”

Then, more carefully: “But I am starting to wonder if we’re waiting for something we already have.”

Carla blinked.

Bérénice took another step forward, scarf still in her hands.

“Some people flirt like it’s survival,” she said. “Lucie is like that. She performs it. Makes it safe by making it silly.”

“And us?” Carla asked.

“We mean it,” Bérénice said. “So we hesitate.”

Carla leaned back against the doorframe.

“Do you want to come in?”

“Yes,” Bérénice said, after a pause. “But I don’t want to pretend we’re still at the beginning.”

Carla nodded, slow.

“Then don’t.”

They didn’t touch. Not yet. But it felt like something had been said out loud that would echo for a while.

Bérénice stepped inside. Carla let the door close behind her.

Lucie looked up just long enough to say, “Well. Finally,” and then went back to doodling on her napkin.

Élodie, behind the counter, arched an eyebrow. Said nothing. For now.

Carla poured another shot of espresso. Bérénice sat at the bar. Their knees bumped, and neither one moved away.

Chapter Text

Late afternoon stretched soft across the floorboards of La Liseuse, catching in the glass panes and leaving the shop suspended in gold. Dust floated like punctuation, slow and drifting. Behind the counter, Bérénice leaned one elbow against the register and pretended to organize the week’s receipts. The drawer creaked. The paper was warm from the sun, and none of the totals matched.

Across the street, Lucie was crossing again.

She did not hurry. Lucie never did. She walked like someone aware of her own pacing, the kind of person who added deliberate pauses in conversation to make the other person wait. It was charming until it wasn’t. Until you noticed how often she left the room just before you said what mattered.

Bérénice watched her from behind the register. Not directly. Through the reflection in the window, just left of the rotating postcard rack. Lucie’s coat caught the wind and flared a little at the sides, like a careless curtain.

At the café door, Élodie appeared. She held it open with one hip, tossed her hair like someone who never had to try twice. Their laughter broke through the glass faintly, not quite muffled. Even through two panes and a street’s worth of distance, it reached her. The note of it. The rhythm.

Bérénice closed the register drawer a little too fast. The click echoed louder than it should have. A receipt slipped from the stack and curled on the floor like a ribbon, tight and useless.

She did not pick it up.

Carla had smiled earlier.

Not the usual half-tilted smirk she gave customers or the unreadable one she offered photographers or people who complimented her handwriting. This had been a soft one, startled and real, like a window opening.

Lucie had said something awful, some offhand line about “barista with tragic eyes.” Carla had flushed. Not defensive, not annoyed. Just flushed, like her blood had remembered to rush.

And Bérénice, well, she had folded the moment inward, like an envelope she would reopen later.

She turned her attention back to the stack of returns. Someone had left behind a small poetry collection with a cracked spine. The kind with faint pencil underlines, inconsistent and personal. She thumbed through it, not really reading.

On the inside of the front page, there was just enough room to write.

She uncapped a pen. The weight of it settled familiar in her hand. A quiet, almost-weight.

She wrote:

Is it still waiting if you’re choosing it? Or does that make it something else entirely?

She closed the book before the ink dried.

The bell above the door rang. A customer. Maybe. Maybe not.

Outside, Lucie leaned into Élodie’s space like she belonged there. Bérénice let the moment pass without watching too closely.

She straightened the receipt pile, finally. Quietly. With care.

Chapter Text

Lucie had a way of entering a space like she already owned part of it. Not all, just enough to lean on the counter without asking, to pour herself a second espresso while making a face at the first one. She did it with charm, the kind that took a second to register and a week to untangle from.

By Thursday, she had become a fixture at Le Matin Noir.

She occupied the third stool from the window, back straight, legs crossed like a deliberate contradiction. Her scarf kept falling off one shoulder. She never fixed it. Carla had once tried to nudge it back into place on instinct, then immediately regretted the reach. Lucie had smiled like she knew.

Carla rinsed a portafilter with more force than necessary.

Élodie, by contrast, had begun the week with a certain skeptical distance. She had clocked Lucie as a tourist with opinions and too many rings. She had said, flatly, “Ah, a visiting intellectual. How novel.” Lucie had not flinched. Instead, she had replied, “And you must be the reason Bérénice’s texts got cryptic.” Then asked for more sugar.

Somehow, by Friday, they were sharing a croissant.

Carla watched it unfold with the same expression she reserved for unexpected water damage. Wariness tinged with reluctant fascination.

Today, Lucie was thumbing through the café’s sad little collection of abandoned paperbacks. She held up a copy of The Alchemist with two fingers and said, “Philosophy for people afraid of mess.” Élodie snorted without looking up from her grinder.

“Remind me to recommend that for your next gallery catalogue,” she said.

Lucie tilted her head. “Careful. I might take that as flirtation.”

“You’d be right,” Élodie replied, deadpan. Then handed her the cappuccino she hadn’t ordered.

Carla, wiping down the counter, paused just long enough to clock it.

She did not say anything.

She also did not miss the way Lucie leaned a little closer to Élodie when she sipped. Or the way Élodie’s eyes dropped to Lucie’s mouth, lingered, and then moved on as if they hadn’t.

Bérénice had not come in that morning.

That, more than anything, had put Carla’s nerves slightly off-key.

Lucie noticed. Of course she did. She was the type who noticed things and pretended she didn’t until it suited her. She tapped her spoon against her mug and said, casually, “So. You and Bérénice. Is that a situation with a name yet?”

Carla blinked. “What?”

Lucie shrugged. “You both seem very… literary.”

Élodie arched one eyebrow. “I think that’s her way of saying you’re obviously in love.”

Lucie raised both hands. “I did not say the L word.”

“No,” Élodie said. “You just set the building on fire and pretended it was atmospheric.”

Carla cleared her throat. “We’re not a situation.”

Lucie looked genuinely amused. “Oh, I didn’t say that. I asked if it had a name.”

Before Carla could reply, Élodie’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then held it up for Carla to see. It was a meme. Something about a dog in a burning room with the caption when your best friend is emotionally constipated but hot. Carla did not laugh. But her ears flushed a dull, familiar pink.

Lucie saw. Filed it away. Swirled her spoon in her cup.

The café door swung open then. Afternoon light slanted in. Bérénice stepped inside like she belonged there, which she did. Her scarf matched the spine of the book tucked under her arm. Her eyes found Carla’s across the counter and stayed there just a little too long.

Lucie stood, dramatically stretching. “I’ll let you two have your… literary moment.”

Élodie snorted again. “Try not to annotate anything on your way out.”

Lucie winked at Carla, breezed past Bérénice, and paused just long enough to murmur something that made Bérénice’s brow lift slightly.

Once she was gone, Élodie leaned across the counter.

“So,” she said quietly, “should I make popcorn, or are we still pretending this is a novella and not a feature-length film?”

Carla dried her hands on a towel that was already too damp. “You’re unbearable.”

“And yet,” Élodie said, sliding her sunglasses back into her hair, “you keep me around.”

She walked off before Carla could think of anything clever to say.

Behind her, Bérénice was reading the specials board like it was a sonnet she hadn’t quite translated yet. Carla stepped forward, opened her mouth, then closed it again.

The espresso machine hissed behind them, like punctuation.

No one spoke. But something had shifted. It didn’t need a name. Not yet.

Saturday was slow in the way only warm spring Saturdays could be. Light pooled in corners of La Liseuse like honey. The bell above the door jingled with little conviction. Bérénice looked up from the counter only twice in an hour, both times out of habit rather than need.

Customers wandered through in the measured way of people who had nowhere better to be. A man in a linen jacket asked for translated haiku. A teenager held up three different editions of The Secret History before choosing the ugliest one. Two women took selfies in front of the poetry shelf.

Bérénice did not mind the quiet.

It gave her space to think. To rearrange the endcap displays. To run her fingers along the tops of the books she already knew by heart. And to glance, occasionally, through the front window.

Across the street, Élodie was rearranging the outside chalkboard. She had written something snarky about cortados. Carla had obviously edited it. The result was still sarcastic, but in italics.

Lucie leaned against the café window, one foot lifted just enough to rest her heel against the brick. She was eating a croissant and talking to Élodie without looking at her. Élodie, for once, looked like she was actually listening.

Bérénice did not stare. She was too practiced for that.

She polished the counter with a slow, even motion and pretended the conversation outside was distant background noise. The way waves were always present at the beach, even when you were reading something else.

Still, her eyes flicked upward again as Élodie laughed.

Lucie did not laugh. She smiled with her mouth closed and offered a bite of pastry. Élodie took it.

The cloth in Bérénice’s hand stilled for a beat too long.

It was not that she minded. Not really. Lucie was flirtatious with most living things. Plants. Waitstaff. Museums. It was how she moved through the world, with a sort of ironic magnetism. You either hated it immediately or fell into orbit.

She watched how Carla passed them both a takeout cup. Carla’s hand brushed Lucie’s for half a second. Bérénice didn’t look away fast enough.

It was nothing. It meant nothing.

Still, her chest felt like it had taken in one breath too many and forgotten how to exhale.

She stepped out from behind the counter and straightened the fiction table. A paperback copy of The Hours was slightly off-kilter. She tapped it back into place and wondered if Carla had noticed she brought that particular copy with her last night. The annotated one. The one with the marginalia that got more personal as the book neared the end.

Carla hadn’t said anything about it. She had just made room on the shelf.

It had felt unsettling. In the quiet kind of way. Not a rejection. But not exactly a signal either.

The bell jingled again. A couple entered, murmuring about cookbooks. Bérénice gave them a polite nod, then ducked into the back room.

She stood there for a moment, alone among boxes and the smell of old paper. No sounds but the faint rustling of pages and the low hum of the fridge in the tiny staff kitchen.

She leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

Lucie had not come here to disrupt anything. She had come because she missed her. That was all. That was true. But Lucie’s presence had a way of stirring the sediment at the bottom of things. Making what was clear feel cloudy again.

When she stepped out of the storeroom, Carla was standing at the counter with a wrapped sandwich and a tentative smile.

“I brought lunch,” she said, voice careful around the edges.

Bérénice’s stomach betrayed her with a low growl. Carla heard it and smiled wider.

“You looked like you might forget to eat,” she added.

Bérénice took the paper bag. Their fingers didn’t touch.

“Thank you,” she said, quieter than she meant to.

Carla looked at her like she wanted to ask something. Maybe about Lucie. Maybe about nothing at all. But in the end, she only reached into her coat pocket and handed her something folded.

“From Élodie,” she said.

Inside was a paper napkin. On it, in smudged ink, were three words:

She flirts loud.

Underneath, in Carla’s smaller handwriting:

You don’t.

Bérénice pressed the napkin flat against the counter. She looked up, slowly.

Carla was already halfway to the door, coffee in hand.

Outside, Lucie had vanished. Élodie was leaning against the brick with her eyes closed, face tilted toward the sun.

Bérénice touched the edge of the napkin once more, then reached for her pen.

It started with Élodie wiping down the espresso machine too aggressively. Carla noticed because the motion was all wrong. Circles too tight, pressure too focused. Like she was trying to remove the metal’s ability to reflect.

“Are you polishing that or plotting its slow demise?” Carla asked, not looking up from the inventory tablet.

Élodie didn’t answer. She set the cloth down and leaned on the counter with both hands, her rings clicking softly against the wood.

Carla tapped the screen once. Then again. The numbers refused to add up, but that was fine. The point was not the numbers.

“You’re avoiding me,” Élodie said.

“I work here. You work here.”

“That’s not the same as answering your texts.”

Carla sighed, but it came out quieter than she meant. She set the tablet aside and looked at her friend, really looked. Élodie’s eyeliner had started to smudge at the corners, which only happened when she was either too tired or too interested in someone to bother fixing it.

“I wasn’t avoiding you,” Carla said. “I was… distracted.”

“With Bérénice?”

Carla didn’t answer.

“Okay,” Élodie said, and there was a note of delight in it, the kind she got when a customer said “I’ll have whatever’s on that shelf” and accidentally chose the good one. “So. You’re a thing now.”

Carla paused. Then frowned. “We haven’t- I don’t know what we are. Exactly.”

Élodie tilted her head. “You’re not sleeping together?”

“Élodie.”

“I’m just asking. That’s a fair question.”

Carla ran a hand through her hair and stared at the steam wand like it might deliver her from this conversation.

“I slept with Lucie,” Élodie said, like it was a weather update.

There was a long, long pause.

“What?” Carla said.

“I slept with Lucie,” Élodie repeated. “It was… actually incredible.”

Carla opened her mouth. Closed it. Tried again.

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Élodie said, smiling in that crooked, slow way she did when she was proud of herself but pretending not to be. “You were off yesterday morning. I closed up. She lingered. One thing led to another, as they do.”

Carla stared at her. “You slept with Bérénice’s best friend?”

“She’s also a grown woman who initiated, thank you very much.”

Carla sat on the edge of the counter, as if sitting might make this make more sense.

“It was respectful,” Élodie added. “Hot. But respectful.”

“That’s not a combination I thought you were capable of.”

Élodie held up her hands. “Everyone’s full of surprises. Even me.”

Carla rubbed her temples. “Okay. Okay. But, wait. What does this have to do with me?”

“You’re clearly falling apart. You look like you’ve been sleeping in emotional purgatory. So I assumed you and Bérénice were, you know… doing something about all that tension. Since it’s clearly mutual. And extensive.”

“We’re not-” Carla trailed off. “It’s not like that.”

Élodie leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “Carla. Come on. She looks at you like you’re a limited edition first pressing.”

Carla winced.

“And you,” Élodie continued, “look at her like you forgot what air feels like until she walks in.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve annotated each other,” Élodie said flatly. “With your actual lives. You’re in the footnotes phase, and I don’t even know what comes after that.”

Carla made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “You’re infuriating.”

“I’m right.”

Carla didn’t argue.

“I’m not saying you have to do anything,” Élodie said more gently now. “I’m just saying… if you want her, maybe let her know before someone else assumes you don’t.”

Carla thought about Lucie. About the way Bérénice watched things. The space she gave. The quiet she held. The way she never asked for more than Carla could give, but still left room, always, in case Carla could.

“I think we’re waiting,” Carla said, quietly.

“On what?”

“I don’t know. The right page. The right timing.”

Élodie snorted. “You’re both so poetic it hurts.”

Carla glanced at her, and this time she smiled.

“You really slept with Lucie?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“And it was good?”

“Shockingly.”

“Are you going to do it again?”

“Maybe.”

“Is she still here?”

Élodie gave her a look. “She left her scarf. That seems like a yes.”

Carla nodded. “Well. Good for you.”

“Good for me,” Élodie agreed.

They stood there for a moment, the café quiet around them, the late afternoon creeping in through the front windows like a cat that didn’t need permission.

Then Élodie nudged Carla with her hip. “Go see her.”

Carla hesitated.

“Now,” Élodie said. “While you still know what you want to say.”

Carla pushed off the counter. She grabbed her coat. She paused at the door.

“If she writes me a note back,” she said, “I’m blaming you.”

Élodie grinned. “Tell her I like footnotes.”

Carla shook her head and left. The bell chimed once, high and bright.

Behind her, Élodie went back to wiping the counter. This time, gently. Like she meant it.

Chapter Text

The flat was quiet except for the soft hum of the kettle. Carla sat on the edge of the bed with her knees drawn up, a paperback resting against one thigh. The spine cracked softly each time she turned a page. Her glasses were slipping a little, half-forgotten on the bridge of her nose.

Bérénice, hair in a loose bun, moved barefoot across the small kitchen. She hummed something tuneless under her breath as she poured hot water over the loose leaf blend she had brought in a linen pouch two nights ago. It smelled like bergamot and lavender and something faintly citrusy that Carla could never quite name.

Carla tilted her head toward the bedroom, watching the curve of Bérénice’s shoulder as she leaned against the counter. The light through the window made everything gold and slow.

“Do you want honey?” Bérénice asked without turning.

Carla blinked back to the page, though she had not taken in a single sentence for the past ten minutes.

“Yeah. Just a bit.”

There was the faint clink of a spoon against ceramic.

Carla adjusted her legs under the duvet and flipped back two pages. The book was one Élodie had lent her ages ago, full of aching smallness and French domesticity and no real plot. She loved it. It matched the morning.

When Bérénice returned with two mugs, she sat carefully on the bed, then tucked one leg under her and shifted so her thigh pressed against Carla’s. Neither of them moved to fill the silence.

Carla accepted the tea, took a sip, and made a face.

“You did the fancy steeping again, didn’t you.”

“I am a woman of principle,” Bérénice said, smiling into her own cup.

They sat like that for a while, close enough that their shoulders bumped when either of them breathed too deeply. Carla gave up on the book entirely, letting it fall to the blanket.

“Do you think anyone’s noticed?” she asked.

Bérénice turned to her slowly. “Noticed what?”

Carla gestured vaguely between them. “That I keep showing up late to open. That your hair smells like my shampoo.”

A small pause. Then, Bérénice shrugged. “Lucie noticed. She told me I look ‘gently ravished’.”

Carla choked on her tea.

Bérénice took the mug from her hands, set it aside, then brushed a hand down Carla’s spine like she had all the time in the world.

“You’re terrible,” Carla muttered, face half-hidden in the pillow now.

“And you,” Bérénice said quietly, leaning in until her forehead touched the crown of Carla’s head, “are glowing. A little.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Carla didn’t reply. She just shifted so their legs were a little more tangled, like something unfinished that had finally found its rhythm.

Downstairs, someone on the street called out in clipped Dutch. A dog barked once, sharply. The kettle clicked off again, forgotten.

“I don’t want to go in,” Carla said, eventually.

Bérénice didn’t say you have to. She didn’t joke about bills or responsibility or the latte-craving masses. She just reached for Carla’s hand beneath the duvet and laced their fingers together.

“Then don’t,” she said.

And for a few minutes longer, they didn’t.

They stayed right there. In the warm hollow of a morning that felt like it belonged to no one else. Like they had slipped out of the world entirely and it had not noticed.

Carla closed her eyes.

It was not new, exactly, this closeness. But it was different in its quiet. It had nothing to prove. No performance.

Just the sound of Bérénice’s breathing.

And the book still open at her side, waiting.

La Liseuse smelled like paper and polish and something faintly herbal from the sachets Bérénice kept tucked between shelves. It was a Thursday, early afternoon, and the shop had only two customers, both sunk into the armchairs by the front display with their coats draped over their laps like worn shields.

Carla stood by the poetry section, running her finger along the spines without really reading the titles. Bérénice was already at the back near the counter, straightening a stack of remaindered hardcovers that refused to stay tidy. She glanced over once, quietly watching Carla pretend she wasn’t watching back.

Outside, the rain had stopped, but the sky still pressed low, pale and indifferent. Carla’s hair had gone soft with humidity, curling at the ends where she had tucked it behind her ears. Her coat hung open, her scarf missing again. Bérénice suspected it was still somewhere in Carla’s kitchen, possibly beneath a cookbook.

“Are you hiding?” Bérénice asked, low and wry as she came up beside her.

Carla tilted her head. “From what?”

“From deciding.”

“About what?”

Bérénice didn’t answer. Just tilted her head toward the chair tucked under the bay window. The one barely wide enough for one person, already cluttered with a folded blanket and a stray copy of Persuasion with marginalia in two different hands.

Carla looked at it. Then looked at Bérénice. “That’s not subtle.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Bérénice said.

There was a beat. Then Carla moved first. She crossed the room in three strides and collapsed into the armchair without ceremony, legs tucked up under her, looking like someone prepared to be mildly inconvenienced by intimacy.

Bérénice followed more carefully. She sat sideways, curling into the curve of Carla’s body like she had always known the shape of it. The book from the chair slid to the floor. Neither of them picked it up.

Carla shifted once, awkwardly. Then again, less so. She made a small sound that might have been a sigh. Or a laugh. Or both.

“Comfortable?” Bérénice murmured near her ear.

Carla nodded against her. “Suspiciously.”

They sat like that. Still but not frozen. The kind of stillness that held warmth in it, and breath, and maybe even something permanent.

From the corner of her eye, Bérénice caught movement at the door.

Lucie entered the shop with her usual purposeful glide, scarf tossed artfully over one shoulder and a bag too large for any practical use slung over her arm. She paused in the doorway, caught the sight of them curled together, and smiled. Not surprised. Not smug. Just knowing.

She walked past without a word and disappeared into the fiction aisle.

Carla tensed slightly, then went still again.

Bérénice watched her.

“You okay?” she whispered.

Carla didn’t answer immediately. Then: “I keep thinking it’s obvious. But also like it’s nothing yet. Like if someone asked me to explain what we are, I’d just… flail.”

“Do you want a label?” Bérénice asked.

“I want something I don’t have to defend,” Carla said. “Even to myself.”

“That’s not a label.”

“No,” Carla agreed. “It’s not.”

They fell quiet again.

A minute later, Carla’s phone buzzed in her coat pocket. She fished it out one-handed, glanced at the screen, and handed it to Bérénice without speaking.

It was a message from Élodie.

I’ve seen this film before.

Bérénice smiled, lips pressed together.

Carla muttered, “She’s unbearable.”

Bérénice replied, “She’s right.”

Carla said nothing.

But she didn’t move either. Not even when the front bell chimed again. Not when Lucie passed them on her way out, offering a small salute that was both fond and deeply inappropriate.

Not even when the light shifted across the room and Bérénice’s leg went slightly numb from the angle.

They just stayed. Quietly, deliberately, in a chair meant for one.

By late afternoon, the café had taken on its usual rhythm. The espresso machine sighed in intervals. Someone coughed behind a laptop. A child somewhere near the back was reciting something that sounded like poetry but probably wasn’t.

Carla leaned on the counter, stirring her tea with the absent-minded precision of someone who had forgotten she liked it hot. The mug had cooled hours ago, but she was still holding it like it anchored her.

Élodie emerged from the back room balancing a stack of clean mugs, which she dropped into the sink one by one, letting the ceramic clink loud enough to make her point.

“What’s the point?” Carla asked without looking up.

“No point. Just noise,” Élodie said, wiping her hands on a towel. “You haven’t asked me about Lucie.”

Carla sipped. Winced. “I figured if something exploded, you’d lead with that.”

“Nothing exploded.”

“Yet.”

“Such optimism.” Élodie slid a fresh mug in Carla’s direction and leaned her elbows on the counter. “She left an earring in my coat pocket.”

Carla blinked.

“I know,” Élodie said. “Very vintage. Very ‘accidental.’”

“Are you sure it wasn’t actually accidental?”

“She made eye contact while she did it.”

Carla smothered a laugh. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Ambushed. Flattered. Slightly violated. Mildly obsessed,” Élodie said in a practiced rhythm. “Pick your favorite.”

“She’s your type.”

“She’s everyone’s type.”

Carla gave her a look.

“What?” Élodie said. “I’m not wrong.”

There was a pause. The sound of a milk steamer whined behind them. The front bell chimed as someone left.

Carla asked, quiet now, “So what’s going on?”

Élodie shrugged. “She’s still hanging around. Sometimes for coffee, sometimes for… not coffee.”

“That’s vague.”

“It’s honest.”

Carla swirled her tea again. “Are you going to keep seeing her?”

“I haven’t decided if it counts as seeing yet,” Élodie said. “But if I start quoting some book unironically, please push me into traffic.”

Carla raised her eyebrows. “That bad?”

“That good,” Élodie muttered, almost to herself. Then louder: “She’s trouble. The charming kind. And yes, I know you already think that.”

“I think she’s interesting.”

“You think she’s hot.”

Carla didn’t argue.

Another pause settled, this one less companionable. Élodie tapped her nails on the counter, staring at Carla’s tea like it had personally offended her.

“What?” Carla said, knowing.

Élodie didn’t smile. “You and Bérénice. Have you?”

“Have we…?”

Élodie waved a hand. “You know. Finally gotten to the part where your epic romance becomes… romantic.”

Carla flushed. “That’s none of your business.”

“It would be, if I hadn’t had to endure months of you sighing into the milk fridge.”

Carla snorted. “I did not sigh into the fridge.”

“You did. Once for a solid thirty seconds. I timed it.”

There was a silence that settled in around the joke, but didn’t leave with it. Carla looked down at the rim of her mug, finger tracing the chip that had been there since winter.

“We’re figuring it out,” she said finally.

Élodie nodded. “And is that code for ‘still waiting for the right moment’ or ‘already wildly in love and refusing to admit it’?”

Carla didn’t answer.

Élodie softened, the teasing edge in her voice easing into something closer to care.

“I’m just saying,” she added. “If I can fall into bed with someone like Lucie and survive the ego bruises, you can probably survive being adored by someone who sorts your bookshelf when she thinks you’re not looking.”

Carla looked up at her then. Something uncertain flickered behind her eyes. And something grateful.

“Thanks,” she said.

Élodie shrugged again. “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for the coffee shop. The romantic tension is clogging the air vents.”

Carla laughed. Loud this time. The kind that made the kid at the back glance over.

She took a sip from the new mug. Hot. Sharp. Just right.

“She really left an earring?” she asked.

Élodie leaned in, grinning now. “Topaz stud. Left side. I’m keeping it.”

“Sentimental?”

“Strategic.”

They stood in silence again. But this time, it held ease.

From across the street, Bérénice passed the front window. She didn’t look in, but Carla saw her anyway. The sun caught the edge of her hair. Her scarf fluttered slightly as she turned the corner.

Carla watched until she disappeared.

Then she looked down at her tea.

And smiled.

The café had just closed. Carla clicked off the chalkboard menu with the heel of her hand and leaned her weight into the front door until it latched with its familiar sigh. Outside, the streetlamp flickered twice and steadied, casting a soft yellow glow against the fogged glass of Le Matin Noir. Late autumn had crept in while she wasn’t looking.

Inside, it was warm in a way that didn’t come from the heater. The place smelled like coffee grounds and almond pastry, and something faintly citrus from Bérénice’s hand cream. Carla had noticed it that morning when she’d held her fingers a little longer than necessary over breakfast.

The poetry book was still on the back shelf near the register. Someone had returned it out of guilt or misunderstanding, and Carla had meant to shelve it properly all day. But each time she picked it up, she hesitated. The cover was creased in a familiar way. The margins still carried someone else’s thoughts, written in tight, earnest script.

She ran a hand over the page again. Stopped on a line that read like a breath held just under the surface.

“And you came with quiet, and I stayed because I heard it.”

The bell above the door chimed softly. Carla didn’t jump. She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Bérénice’s coat was half-buttoned. Her cheeks were pink from the wind. She looked like she’d walked here slowly, on purpose.

“I thought you were closing,” she said, stepping in and letting the door shut gently behind her.

“I am,” Carla said. “I just… lingered.”

Bérénice smiled, then glanced at the book in her hand. “Anything good?”

“Just something returned. But it’s full of notes. I think someone loved it.”

Bérénice crossed the room with measured steps and reached for the book without asking. Carla let her take it.

She flipped to the middle, then further. Her eyes caught something familiar. She paused. “I think I annotated this in university.”

Carla blinked. “Seriously?”

“There’s a tiny ink stain on page seventy-nine. I remember it. I knocked over a blueberry tea.”

Carla opened her mouth. Closed it. Then laughed.

Bérénice held the book against her chest, a small crease forming between her brows. “Why does it feel like everything keeps circling back?”

“Maybe it’s not circling,” Carla said. “Maybe it’s just… settling.”

That earned her a glance. A soft one.

Carla turned back to the counter. Started stacking stray mugs without thinking. The air had shifted. Not tense. Just waiting.

“I was thinking,” she said, not looking up, “maybe tomorrow we sleep in again. You could stay.”

“I thought we agreed last time wasn’t a sleepover,” Bérénice said. “It was just an extended blink.”

Carla smiled without meaning to. “A very cozy blink.”

There was a pause. Not long. But enough.

Then arms wrapped around her from behind. Slow. Certain.

Bérénice pressed her forehead between Carla’s shoulder blades and let out a breath that skimmed warm across fabric. “This is starting to feel like ours.”

Carla froze for a half second, just long enough to feel the weight of the words.

Then she reached back, slid a hand into Bérénice’s, and twined their fingers together.

“I want it to,” she said quietly.

They stayed like that for a while. Nothing performative. Just stillness and contact. The sound of the espresso machine cooling, the hum of traffic outside, and two heartbeats settling into rhythm.

Eventually, Carla turned within the circle of Bérénice’s arms.

“You walked all this way just to tell me that?” she asked.

“I had a feeling you’d still be here. Having a crisis.”

Carla rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t a crisis.”

“It was a very gentle one,” Bérénice conceded. “Elegant. Literary.”

Carla leaned in. Their foreheads touched. “Come home with me.”

Bérénice tilted her head. “Is this your version of a grand gesture?”

Carla kissed her.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t hesitant.

It was the kind of kiss that felt like turning a page and finding yourself already in the middle of something worth staying for.

When they pulled back, Carla rested her forehead against Bérénice’s again.

“No notes,” she said.

Bérénice whispered, “None needed.”

Chapter Text

The lamp on Carla’s nightstand glowed low and amber, casting soft shadows against the spines of books stacked precariously nearby. One leaned into the other like a toppled pair of elbows. Her room smelled faintly of bergamot from the tea steeping on the windowsill, gone mostly cold now, forgotten in favor of the quiet.

Carla was half-sitting, half-slouching against a mound of pillows, her legs stretched out beneath the blanket. A paperback rested on her stomach, open to a page she kept rereading, eyes flickering but unfocused. Next to her, Bérénice sat upright with her back to the headboard, one knee drawn up, her own book held in both hands. The duvet pooled between them, soft cotton pressing against skin and fabric alike. They had been like this for over an hour, neither speaking much. A sentence here, a question there. Otherwise, silence. Comfortable. Intentional.

Outside, the city moved with its usual murmur. But here, time slowed to the sound of page turns and the occasional clink of a mug shifting on ceramic.

Carla reached toward the tea absently. So did Bérénice. Their fingers brushed, and Carla’s hand stilled.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

Bérénice gave a small smile, then passed her the mug. Their hands touched again, slower this time. Carla sipped and winced a little. Cold, now.

“You always forget it,” Bérénice said.

Carla hummed a noncommittal agreement and set it down on the floor beside the bed. “Too many distractions.”

“Like your book?” Bérénice asked, tilting her chin toward it.

“Kind of.” Carla hesitated, then lifted it a little. “There’s this line I keep coming back to.”

“Read it to me.”

Her voice was steady, quiet, not exactly coaxing but something near it.

Carla’s thumb smoothed against the edge of the page. She cleared her throat and read aloud, slowly,

“Some evenings ask for nothing but presence. No answers, no declarations. Just the weight of a body beside you.”

She let the words hang, then gave a weak laugh. “Bit on the nose, huh?”

Bérénice didn’t answer. She was watching Carla, book closed now and resting in her lap. Her gaze was soft but unwavering.

“What?” Carla asked, trying not to fidget. “Do I have tea breath?”

“No.”

She didn’t elaborate. Just watched. Like she was seeing something shift and wasn’t in a rush to name it.

Carla set the book aside and pulled the blanket a little higher around her legs. “We don’t have to read,” she offered, voice light.

“I don’t mind,” Bérénice said, but her own book stayed closed.

The quiet stretched again. Not tense. Just full.

Carla glanced sideways. “What are you thinking?”

“That I like being here.”

Carla’s stomach did something embarrassing and slow.

Then Bérénice added, “And that I’m done pretending I’m not watching you get all tangled in your own brain about nothing.”

Carla blinked. “I’m not-”

“You are,” Bérénice said gently. “And it’s alright. I’m just saying… you can stop, if you want.”

Carla stared at the duvet between them. Then she reached, hand slow and deliberate, until it found Bérénice’s. This time, they didn’t let go.

Their fingers fit without fuss, palms pressed with a quiet kind of finality.

Carla looked up. Bérénice had leaned in slightly, face unreadable but open.

“So,” Carla said, voice barely above a whisper. “What now?”

Bérénice didn’t answer with words. She shifted closer, their joined hands moving to rest between them. Then she leaned in further, pressing her lips softly against the corner of Carla’s mouth. Not quite a kiss. More a permission.

Carla turned her head the rest of the way.

Their mouths met again, and this time it landed. Soft. Sure. Nothing urgent. Just the slow press of a yes.

They kissed like they had time. Like there was nothing to outrun.

The book slid from Carla’s stomach onto the floor with a muted thud. Neither of them looked down.

Carla’s free hand curled lightly into the fabric of Bérénice’s sleeve. Bérénice’s other hand found Carla’s jaw, fingers warm against skin.

They pulled apart, barely, foreheads resting together.

“Hi,” Carla breathed.

“Hi,” Bérénice replied, smiling like it was inevitable.

The lamp buzzed gently in the silence that followed. Their tea sat cold on the windowsill. And neither of them noticed.

When they kissed again, it was not the beginning of something. It was a continuation. A page turned with care, already half-read, already cherished.

They left the books where they fell. Neither story needed finishing tonight.

The cedar candles flicker, casting soft shadows across Bérénice’s bedroom, the air warm with their mingled breath. Carla’s sprawled on the sheets, her lean frame taut, heart pounding as Bérénice’s lips graze the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Bérénice’s touch is slow, deliberate, her strong fingers tracing Carla’s wiry frame, lingering at the curve of her hip. Carla’s small breasts rise with quick breaths, her body humming under Bérénice’s steady gaze, feeling both exposed and cherished.

“You’re staring again,” Carla says, voice dry, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Gonna charge me for the view?”

Bérénice’s laugh is low, her eyes glinting. “Free for you. Special offer.” She kisses just below Carla’s navel, drawing a sharp inhale. Carla’s sarcasm dissolves into a soft moan as Bérénice moves lower, her mouth warm and unhurried. Bérénice’s hands steady Carla’s trembling thighs, her confidence a quiet anchor, her fingers pressing just enough to feel possessive without overwhelming. Her tongue finds a rhythm, slow at first, teasing, then growing insistent, each movement precise, attuned to Carla’s every shudder. Carla’s vocal, her gasps and sharp cries filling the room, unselfconscious, raw. The first climax builds gradually, a slow burn that crests into a wave, her fingers clutching the sheets, a breathless “Okay, wow” slipping out as her body arches. Bérénice doesn’t pause, her touch relentless yet tender, coaxing Carla toward a second, quicker peak. Carla’s voice breaks into a laugh, half-disbelief, as the intensity overtakes her again, leaving her a trembling mess, her hand flopping dramatically to Bérénice’s shoulder. “You’re showing off now,” she pants, her grin shaky but delighted.

Bérénice slides up, her breasts brushing Carla’s skin, her grin teasing. Their kiss is soft, slightly sloppy, Carla tasting herself with a raised eyebrow. “You’re unfairly good at this,” she mutters, her fingers grazing Bérénice’s jaw.

“Practice makes perfect,” Bérénice quips, her voice warm, leaning into Carla’s touch. Her own desire shows in the flush across her chest, her breath uneven.

Carla nudges Bérénice onto her back with a playful grin, her wiry strength gentle but sure, a spark of confidence in her movements. She lingers, savoring the moment, her fingers tracing the soft dip of Bérénice’s waist, the firm curve of her muscular legs, the inviting swell of her hips. “You’re like a damn sculpture,” Carla says, her voice laced with mock exasperation, though her eyes betray awe, drinking in how Bérénice’s skin glows in the candlelight, shadows dancing across her curves. She lets her touch wander, slow and deliberate, mapping the warmth of Bérénice’s body, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin just above her thigh, teasing a soft hitch in Bérénice’s breath. “Look at you, making this too easy,” Carla murmurs, her smirk sharp but fond.

Her hand slides lower, steady, finding the right spot with ease. She watches Bérénice’s face, seeing her lips part, her cheeks flush red. Bérénice’s hand covers Carla’s, guiding her with a gentle press. “There,” she says softly, her voice firm, eyes half-closed but focused on Carla. Carla stays attentive, feeling Bérénice’s legs tense, her fingers gripping Carla’s hair lightly, making Carla chuckle. The moment builds slowly, Bérénice’s breaths coming faster, soft gasps escaping. When she comes, her body shakes gently, then relaxes, her lips forming a wide smile. “You’re not bad yourself,” she says, voice playful, her hand brushing Carla’s cheek, lingering briefly.

They collapse, legs entwined, Carla’s head on Bérénice’s shoulder. Their laughter bubbles up, breathy and shared. “You’re staying, right?” Bérénice asks, fingers doodling on Carla’s arm.

Carla snorts, pressing a lazy kiss to Bérénice’s neck. “What, and miss round two? I’m not that dumb.” They lie there, grinning, the world beyond the bed irrelevant.

The light in Carla’s room was soft and intrusive at once, spilling pale across the duvet in thin, determined stripes. The lamp on the nightstand was still on, buzzing faintly against the silence. The tea on the sill had long since gone cold, again.

Carla woke first. Not abruptly, not all at once. Just a slow rising into awareness, the way you come to when the night has been good and heavy and you would rather stay in it. Her body felt used in the best possible way: loose, a little sore, warm from places she could still feel Bérénice’s touch.

She turned her head slightly. Bérénice was curled against her side, one arm draped across Carla’s stomach, her cheek pressed into the pillow close enough that Carla could count the strands of hair out of place. Her breathing was even, her lips parted the smallest bit.

Carla lay still, staring at the ceiling like she could trick herself into calm. She smiled anyway. Memory flickered through: Bérénice’s laugh when Carla had wrestled herself into her own shirt, the hesitant pause before everything else came undone, the weight of Bérénice’s hand on her ribs. The way she had whispered something soft in French, words Carla had not understood but still carried like a kept secret.

She shifted slightly. Bérénice stirred, eyes blinking open with that disoriented softness of someone pulled gently from sleep.

“Morning,” Carla whispered.

“Mm.” Bérénice’s voice was husky, low, almost unrecognizable. “Morning.” She rubbed her cheek against the pillow, then smiled.

Carla let out a breath she had not realized she had been holding. “That was…” She trailed off, her cheeks heating. “Nice.”

Bérénice raised one eyebrow, still half-asleep but already herself. “Nice?”

Carla groaned, covering her face with one hand. “Okay. Better than nice. The best kind of nice. Stop looking at me like that.”

“I am not looking,” Bérénice said, definitely looking. She caught Carla’s wrist and pulled her hand down. “But you should know, it was more than nice.”

Carla squinted at her, suspicious but smiling. “How much more?”

Bérénice’s lips curved, lazy and knowing. “Hot.”

Carla blinked, then barked out a surprised laugh. “You- Did you just-”

“Yes.” Bérénice tilted her head, utterly unbothered. “It was hot. And good. And everything I wanted it to be.”

Carla buried her face in the pillow for a second, mortified and delighted in equal measure. Her voice was muffled when she said, “You cannot just say that out loud.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I have to admit you are right.” She peeked out from behind the pillow, a crooked grin creeping across her face. “And I was trying to play it cool.”

“You failed.” Bérénice leaned closer, voice softer now. “But I like you better like this.”

Carla’s grin softened into something steadier. She reached up, touched Bérénice’s cheek. “Then I guess I will keep failing.”

They both laughed again, the kind that shook loose the last bit of tension. Fingers found each other under the blanket. Outside, a car passed, a bird chattered. Inside, the air was warm with the kind of honesty that felt overdue.

Carla shifted onto her back, grinning up at the ceiling. “You really just said that. Out loud. To my face.”

Bérénice tilted her head, studying her. “Would you prefer I keep quiet?”

Carla smirked. “Maybe.”

“Mm. I don’t think you do.” In one smooth motion, Bérénice swung a leg over and settled across her hips, the duvet bunching around them.

Carla blinked, pulse kicking hard. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Bérénice echoed, her mouth curving into a slow smile. She braced her hands on either side of Carla’s shoulders, leaning close enough that her hair brushed Carla’s cheek. “See? Not just nice.”

Carla let out a shaky laugh, her hands finding their way to Bérénice’s waist. “You’re going to make me admit it again, aren’t you?”

“Every time,” Bérénice said, teasing but certain.

Carla’s retort got lost somewhere between her throat and her chest when Bérénice kissed her again, deeper this time, nothing hesitant about it. The morning stretched ahead, sunlight climbing higher across the sheets.

The books could wait. The tea was already cold.

Everything else blurred into the weight and warmth of her, into the way Bérénice laughed softly against her mouth, and then the scene slipped out of language altogether.