harlow, i said, elbowing him. what do you want ?

his eyes were still scanning the menu. see, i always get the same thing, but i look every time anyway.

i couldn't help but grin ; it was true : harlow always ended up getting a mocha latte, but spent five minutes thoroughly observing the menu nevertheless.

and one mocha latte, i told the barista behind the counter. she looked to be about our age, with wavy blonde hair and a sweet face, her rosy lips pulled into a genuine smile, the kind of person who was impossible to dislike.

she nodded and marked our order, opening her mouth to state the price, when harlow finally looked down from the menu, his blue, blue gaze meeting the barista's.

for a moment, he faltered, his eyes slightly widening, not as if he was surprised, but as if he was seeing something beautiful for the first time.

harlow, i said again after a moment, feeling strangely out of place – almost like a third wheel, which didn't make any sense at all, and yet . . .

i'm – sorry, he said, blinking as if coming out of a daze. yeah, i'll just . . . have what he said. a medium mocha latte.

okay, the barista said after a moment, offering a wary smile, her gray eyes never leaving harlow's. that'll be twelve twenty-one.

i swallowed, suddenly feeling uneasy, though i couldn't pinpoint why ; maybe i'd simply eaten something bad, or maybe . . . maybe it was because of harlow, the way his eyes looked when they met the barista's.

don't be ridiculous, i told myself, and yet i couldn't help but feel a sense of drowning hopelessness as my gaze dropped to the barista's nametag, the letters dark and bold, spelling out her first name.

heather.