He texted after midnight, but not with the usual safe message about getting home. He mentioned the song playing when they left, then asked whether she had meant what she said about hating early brunch reservations. It gave her something better than a compliment: proof he had listened after the dinner conversation had moved on.

She waited fourteen minutes before replying, partly because she was washing her face, partly because she wanted to enjoy the fact that she had a reply worth sending. Her first instinct was to keep it breezy. Then she wrote, “I hate them unless the coffee is excellent.”

By morning, their exchange had turned into a joke with a second layer. Her friend saw the screenshot over pastries and said, “That one is going somewhere.” Nobody at the table disagreed.