I followed his gaze. The stars were scattered wide above us, with no haze and no clouds. He raised one arm and extended his index finger.
"There's the handle." He traced a crooked arc in the air. "Spout's over there, tilted just so. The lid's the little one that flickers."
I squinted. "That's barely a triangle."
"It's a stretch," he admitted. "But it pours straight down onto the North Pole—right there." He gestured low toward the horizon. "Caffeine-hungry polar bears line up and wait their turn. It's the only thing that gets them through the dark season."
I snorted. "They drink it black, don't they."
"Scalding. No cream, no sugar. Barbaric creatures." Eric paused. "I used to do this with Dad. Or tried to. He always looked but never really saw it. Said stars were only burning gas."
He turned toward me. His crooked grin shone even in the dark. I wanted to tell him how his ridiculous stories relaxed me when I feared things might fall apart. Instead, I poured the last of our coffee into the thermos cap and handed it over without a word.
Eric raised it in a silent toast toward our private constellation. "Here's to the night shift."
He took a sip and passed it back. The coffee was lukewarm and tasted faintly metallic, but I drank it anyway.
Eric pointed at the stars again.
"Now watch," he said. "This part's new."
He swirled his finger upward from the spout of the imaginary pot in a loose, curling pattern.
"Steam," he explained. "Rising like thoughts you can't hold onto. Changes shape every time you look."
I watched his hand more than the stars. He executed gentle and precise movements like he was coaxing the sky into revealing something secret.
"You really believe all that?" I asked.
He let his hand drop to his side. "No, but I like making things up when the world is almost too much to bear."
I nodded, looking back up. The spout. The steam. It was ridiculous and perfect.
A gust came in from the ocean—cool, briny, and sharp with the smell of kelp. Eric stepped closer. Not dramatically. Just close enough for his jacket to brush mine.
He didn't ask this time. Just leaned in.
The kiss was quiet—no buildup, no fireworks. It was the kind of kiss that happens when you both know you're already exactly where you want to be. His lips were soft and familiar. I let the moment breathe.
When we pulled apart, neither of us stepped back. I still tasted the faint bitterness of coffee on his lips and felt the soft scratch of his day-old stubble against my chin.
He looked back up. "Still think it needs a saucer?"
"Absolutely," I said.
That made him laugh. It wasn't a polite chuckle. His eyes crinkled in the corners, and he leaned against my side, gentle and relaxed.
We stood like that for a while longer—two lone figures under a sky that went on forever, sharing stories about constellations only we could see.
We lingered until the cold started to find the seams in our clothes. Not brutally. Just a slow, needling reminder that comfort doesn't last forever if you stand still too long.
Eric shivered slightly against my side. He didn't say anything about heading back. He only bumped my arm with his and tilted his head toward the trail. I nodded.
We walked without speaking, boots careful on the uneven ground, breath curling up between us. Halfway back, Eric stopped. I turned, expecting him to point out some night bird or mention the moon.
Instead, he was looking directly at me.
"What?" I asked.
