Leonard sat at his desk, motionless, a finger idly circling the rim of his coffee cup. The once-steaming drink had long gone cold, untouched. His gaze was fixed somewhere out the window, but his mind wasn't with the skyline.
Instead, it was replaying the earlier moment at the coffee shop—the bump, the spilled drink, the quiet panic in Katherine's eyes. It had been messy, rushed, and awkward, but it had been something. They'd spoken, however briefly. And despite how it ended, he counted it as a victory.
He tilted his head back slightly, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips. "Of all the ways," he murmured to himself, his voice low and sardonic, "it had to be coffee."
The memory of her rolled-up sleeves, her warm fingers checking the redness on his forearm, flickered in his mind. It was a simple, automatic gesture of concern, but it had struck him. Not because of what it meant now, but because of what they had been. Or rather, what they could have been.
