The tiny crane was a brand in Elara's pocket. Its impossible existence mocked her perception of Leo Rossi. At home, under the stark light of her studio, she'd examined it again. The precision was undeniable, the choice of material – repurposed coffee bag – oddly poignant. It spoke of patience, focus, a hidden depth utterly at odds with the espresso-slamming, joke-cracking barista.
Returning to Grounds & Glow felt like walking into an interrogation room. She braced for Leo's usual barrage, but found herself scanning him differently. Past the easy smile and booming "Morning, Dave!", she noticed the slight furrow in his brow when calibrating the grinder, the absolute stillness before he poured a latte, the way his laughter sometimes didn't quite reach his eyes when the cafe was overwhelming. The flour was a constant, a badge of his other domain – baking. Today, it dusted his eyebrow.
He spotted her slinking towards her corner. "Elara! Defying the drizzle once more. Ready to assault your taste buds?" His grin was bright, but his eyes held a flicker of… searching? Or was she imagining it?
"Just coffee," she stated, placing exact change. Avoidance was her armor.
He prepared her triple-shot with exaggerated solemnity. As he slid the mug across, he casually remarked, "Weird thing. Lost a little something special I'd folded yesterday. Must've fallen out somewhere. Ah well." He shrugged, turning to the next customer, but not before his gaze swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second too long on her pocket.
Elara's heart hammered. *He knows.* Or suspected. Heat flooded her cheeks. She grabbed the mug, muttering a garbled thanks, and practically ran to her table. *Idiot. Why did you take it?* The crane felt radioactive. She couldn't focus on her planned sketch – a study of rain-slicked cobblestones. Her lines were shaky, the composition off.
Frustrated, she slammed her pencil down. The cheerful noise of the cafe grated. The turquoise chairs screamed. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath of coffee-scented air, and forced herself to *see*. Not the forced cheer, but the textures. The deep grooves in her scarred wooden table. The way the light caught the curve of a white ceramic mug on the next table, creating stark highlights and soft shadows. The rough weave of a barista's apron hanging nearby.
Almost unconsciously, her hand moved. Charcoal scraped across the textured paper. She rendered the table grain, deep and ancient. She captured the porcelain smoothness of the mug, the play of light making it glow. Her gaze drifted to the counter. Leo was stretching dough now, his back to her, muscles shifting under his t-shirt. The flour on his forearm caught the light. She focused on that – the dusting of white on warm skin, the subtle definition beneath. Her hand moved with swift, sure strokes, capturing the texture, the light, the unexpected strength.
She was so absorbed she didn't notice him approach until his shadow fell across the table. Her head snapped up. He wasn't smiling. He was looking at her sketchbook, his expression unreadable.
Elara instinctively covered the page with her arm. "It's nothing. Just… practicing textures."
Leo didn't move. "Can I see?" His voice was quiet, lacking its usual bravado.
Panic flared. "No. It's… private."
He held her gaze, hazel eyes serious. "Please? Just a glimpse? I saw… the mug. The light." He gestured vaguely.
Against every instinct screaming *danger*, Elara hesitated. The intensity in his eyes wasn't mocking. It was… curious. Slowly, warily, she lowered her arm.
Leo leaned in slightly, not touching the book. He studied the sketches – the table grain, the mug, the detailed study of his own flour-dusted forearm. He didn't speak for a long moment. Elara braced for a joke, a tease about being his muse.
Instead, he breathed, "Wow." He looked up, meeting her eyes directly. "You see things… differently. The way you capture the light on the mug… the roughness of the table…" He glanced back at the forearm sketch, a faint flush rising on his own neck. "It's… beautiful. Honest."
Elara was stunned silent. Beautiful? Honest? Words she craved but rarely heard, least of all directed at a quick sketch. And from *him*? The sunshine barista saw the starkness she rendered and called it beautiful.
"It's just observation," she mumbled, looking away, but the heat in her cheeks wasn't just embarrassment this time.
Leo straightened, a small, genuine smile touching his lips, different from his usual grin. "Well, it's incredible observation." He tapped the table lightly. "Enjoy the textures, Elara." He walked back to the counter, leaving her staring at the sketch of his forearm, a fragile, tentative understanding blooming amidst the charcoal dust.