there was something about the way he said it — like he’d already drawn his conclusions about her, like he’d set her down in a neat little category in his head before she even sat down. that kind of self-assuredness, that quiet way of seeing people, it didn’t bother her. not really. but it did make her wonder just how much he thought he already knew. she tilted her head slightly, studying him over the rim of her cup before finally taking the seat he’d gestured to. a slow, deliberate movement, the kind that said i’m here because i choose to be, not because you invited me. “funny,” she murmured, settling in. “i’ve spent most of my life trying to do the opposite. turns out, avoiding things just makes them show up louder.” the coffee between her hands was hot, grounding. she took a small sip, letting the warmth settle into her before setting the cup down with a quiet clink against the table. her fingers lingered on the rim, tracing it absentmindedly, but her eyes stayed fixed on him. ziggy had a way of holding a moment, like he was keeping it in his pocket for later. some people filled silence because they couldn’t stand the weight of it — ziggy let it stretch, let it breathe, like he wanted to see what would happen when you let the quiet settle into your bones. nik wasn’t sure yet if she found that irritating or interesting. “so, tell me,” she continued, her tone light but laced with something sharper underneath, something testing. “do you collect conversations like you collect moments? or is this one just incidental?” she leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, watching him as she waited for his answer. she’d met people like him before — people who noticed things, who liked to peel back layers, who found meaning in everything whether it was meant to be there or not. the question was, what did he think he saw in her?
"Jeez, who starts a conversation like that?" Ziggy’s lips twitch around the words, a chuckle slipping loose. soft, amused, just a little disbelieving. He closes his book with a lazy sort of finality, fingers lingering over the worn spine before his gaze lifts to meet hers.
She carries herself like someone who already knows the answers to most questions-- like she’s heard them all before and found them boring, without anything to challenge the glint in her eye. There’s something polished about her, facets shined to a blinding perfection, but Ziggy’s met too many people like that to assume the shine isn’t armor. It’s not a question of whether she’s hiding something. It’s a question of whether she cares if he sees it.
But that’s not what she asked him, is it?
Her question was about him. About what he does. About whether thi conversation was something intentional, something part of his process, or just another passing thing to remember weeks from now, incidental and nothing.
"That would be telling." The words come quiet, curved at the edges, his fingers dragging slow around the rim of his glass. The matcha is still untouched, bright green against the dim light of the café, but he makes no move to sip it. Instead, he tilts his head, letting the moment breathe, letting the silence settle thick between them before he breaks it again.
"Something tells me you’re not the type to be collected. To sit on a shelf and gather dust." He watches her, wondering if that's something she'd let lie or grasp with her fingers tight, if she’ll try to pry him open the way she seems so sure he’s trying to pry her.
