It's almost midnight when he picks me up outside The Personas. The streets are quieter than usual, blanketed in thin snow. The glow from nearby streetlamps turns everything golden, and the air is bitter but not biting.
I spot his car parked across the street. He waves from inside, and I rush over, hopping in with a gust of cold.
"So?" he asks, glancing at me sideways. "Still feel like treating me?"
"A deal's a deal. You carried, like, five boxes."
"Six," he corrects. We both laugh. I slide into the passenger seat.
We end up at a 24-hour cafe downtown. It's the kind of place that probably looks plain during the day but feels magical at night—warm lights, tired students huddled in booths, soft indie music humming overhead.
"A barista and a so-called cafe owner walking into a cafe," I joke as we push through the glass door. "Sounds like the start of a bad joke."
"What can I say? Sometimes even we need to recharge."
