Five: Cold Day.

"And when I saw her smile, I wondered what it would be like to make her smile. I thought...I thought it would be like the discovery of smiling."

-Laini Taylor, Daughter of Smoke and Bone

The couches in the teashop are patched and sagging. They bend under human weight, creaking and groaning in their low, protesting voices whenever anyone dares to take a seat. Krystal says that they're "vintage" and therefore add to the atmosphere of the place, but I think she's just too cheap to buy new ones.

They're comfortable enough, anyway, and I suppose they're perfect for drinking tea and reading quietly when it's cold outside. And it was very cold on Wednesday, so of course, I had my aunt leave me at the teashop after school.

It smelled like tea inside: leafy and herbal and sweet and calming, and the scent washed over me and suddenly everything was okay. Like puzzle pieces into place, click, click, click. And after I'd ordered my drink and had a steaming mug in my hands, I decided that there was just something oddly aligning about hot tea on cold days. The two just fit together, like peanut butter and jelly, like Martin and Suzy, like Christmas and twinkling lights.

Maybe one day, I thought, like you and me.

The only open place was a dinky old loveseat which Krystal swears once belonged Joan Plantagenet, daughter of King Edward III. Maybe that makes sense, because that was centuries ago and that little couch sure is rickety. Everyone tends to steer clear of it like it has the plague.

Irony's a funny thing, you know; Joan Plantagenet was killed by the plague.

Uncertainty made me sit down gingerly, carefully, half-convinced that any sudden movements would snap the seat in two. It was a balancing act, because I had a book in one hand and a teacup in the other and I'm not exactly what you'd call a coordinated individual. I managed, though, and the springs sighed beneath me like a breathy murmur of relief.

The teashop was quiet, but it wasn't that kind of pensive silence that means pressed lips and withheld breath. No, this sort of silence was gentle and wispy; it was clouds on sky and brushes on canvas. It was fragile, like sugar glass. And it was the only thing I heard when the bell jingled, and the door opened, and you came shivering inside.

I was rereading The Hobbit, because the movie was due out soon, but I forgot about it in a second when I happened to glance up and you were approaching the counter. You passed by the teacup display along the wall, your hair glistening with a million beads of rain that couldn't stand to let you go.

For a few brief moments, you slipped from my view as you ordered your drink. Play it cool, Sam, I thought to myself. Not a big deal. I tried to focus back on my reading, but that didn't really work out until you came back around, mug in hand, and I had to drill my gaze down so it wouldn't seem like I'd been looking at you.

I lifted an eye, discreetly, to watch as you scanned the room for an empty seat, then arched back onto your toes and checked the other room over your shoulder. You kneaded your bottom lip with your teeth, your eyes cloudy. Unsure. You were unsure, and maybe it was wrong, but that reassured me because I was unsure a lot too.

For instance, I was unsure in my head at that moment, as you shifted awkwardly and let your messenger bag bounce against your knees. On one hand, I wanted to call out to you, ask if you wanted the seat beside me even though it was small and shaky. But on the other hand, that familiar tension was building in my gut, and I kind of just wanted to curl up into a ball, too.

Come on, Sam, you've got to be kidding me, snapped that critical little voice in my head. No excuses.

I swallowed. I scratched at the sleeve of my sweater. I let out a quiet cough, so quiet that maybe I was hoping you wouldn't hear it.

But you did, and you turned slightly as I looked back to my book once again. Perhaps, if I had been more confident, I would have smiled at you and beckoned you over and we would have hit it off right away. Perhaps, if I stopped if-ing all the time, I wouldn't be so down on myself. You're always pestering me about that, after all.

You walked over: I watched your boots shuffle toward me, a pair of sweatpants tucked into them sloppily. When you stopped in front of me, I allowed myself to look up to you. Our eyes met-yours were green.

"Excuse me," you murmured, "can I sit here?"

Your voice: it was both soft and scratchy at once, like that reindeer sweater your grandmother made for you this Christmas. Your words blended together, effortlessly, in this lovely stream of lingual prosody that was even more soothing than silence. You were careful and bright and pretty, and I was so busy staring that I very nearly forgot to answer your question.

"Oh-um-of course!"

You thanked me, a hint of a smirk playing on your lips, and sat down beside me. The stupid loveseat wailed, and your hand flew to your lips as a few people glanced our way.

"It's okay," I assured quickly, "this piece of junk is ancient."

A blush had crept onto your neck, but you nodded.

After that, you pulled out your netbook and I pretended not to watch you, and it was quiet once again save for the soft clink of your nails against your cerulean mug. And then, soon after, the tap of your fingers on computer keys.

I really was reading now, promise, but I'd glance over every few seconds. I'd see you there, completely enthralled by whatever you were typing on that screen. It was as if I was watching a kid in a candy store: your eyes were wide. And of course, I wondered what was so fantastic about a glowing little screen.

Several times, I almost asked. I wanted to ask. But asking meant words, and words meant vulnerability. I used to think that's what they meant, anyway. You've since taught me differently.

Sam, if you want to know, just open your mouth and ask her. She's a girl, not a dinosaur.

I knew you weren't a dinosaur (you were much prettier than a dinosaur), but I think I'd be less afraid to speak if you were. Girls weren't exactly my area of expertise, to say the least. In fact, I was basically certain that I repelled them.

Debating, debating. War inside my mind, wondering: should I, or should I not? It was far too much energy spent on such a simple decision. I guess indecision is just my specialty.

At one point, when I glanced over, you were laughing. I felt myself flush, automatically thinking that you were laughing at me, but your eyes were still glued to the screen. Your fingers flew across the keys, and there was this smile on your lips-it stretched across your face, and it was so utterly pleased and content that I found myself immediately jealous of whatever had caused it.

I wondered if you'd hidden another world inside that little laptop, because it sure seemed like it. As you typed, it was if you'd exited reality and transcended to somewhere else, somewhere better. Somewhere like heaven, but made of hand-typed words.

I had to know. But should I ask? What if I sounded stupid, or imposing, or I tripped over my words and you thought I was an idiot, or what if questions were an insult in your culture and I secured myself a permanent place on your hate list-

"What are you typing?"

Four words, quick and easy. Maybe too quick, but that was okay. I worry too much sometimes.

You looked up abruptly, your eyes like a deer caught in headlights, your lips in a little O.

"O-oh," you murmured, scratching at your neck. "It's, um, it's a book. A story. I-ah-write stories sometimes."

Talking about it made you nervous, I could tell. But there was a proud flush to your cheeks, and I knew somehow that you were glad I asked. And I thought it was cool, that you were a writer. Maybe I didn't understand it then, because I knew that words were important but I didn't realize what they meant to you, but I thought it was cool.

I told you that, and your lips twitched like you wanted to give me a better adjective. But you just thanked me. You sounded more sure of yourself. You sounded happy. I remembered your private smiles and I wondered if you really were-happy, I mean. I hoped so.

Neither of us spoke again after that, not until Aunt Sheridan called to say that she was waiting outside. That's when I stood and picked up my book and empty mug, and you looked up at me and chirped a peppy, "Goodbye!"

I smiled, feeling oddly light. "Goodbye," I replied. Ellery. But I didn't say your name, because that would sound creepy and I didn't want that. You were looking at your computer again anyway, crawling deeper and deeper into that web of words that fit, that clicked together. Like cold days and hot tea. I glanced back one more time: you were captivated by the screen. I was captivated by you. You, and the way that fictional worlds were woven into reality beneath your fingertips.

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A/N: So the song on the side has nothing to do with anything, and I'm not even a Directioner, but honestly it's just an amazing song and I've been listening to it on repeat all day, so yeah.

Dedicated to Fatima for being an amazing human being~