Sunday doesn't plan these things. They just happen.

Like how he just happens to be in the cafeteria five minutes before you walk in. Not sitting. Standing—leaned too casually against the counter near the tea station, phone in hand, not really checking anything at all. He's already ordered, of course. Two drinks. One of them exactly how you take yours—down to the syrup ratio. A hopeful habit.

Sunday doesn't look up when you enter. That would be too obvious. No, he waits. A slow count of four beats—long enough to make it seem natural. Then he lifts his gaze, and there you are, lit like something holy by the dull overhead lights, fumbling with the strap of his bag, looking like he hasn't slept well (does he ever?). Sunday smiles like he's just been handed the day's first miracle.

"Oh," he says with a softness that tastes like sugar. "Hey. I didn't know you'd be here."

A lie. But a kind one.

He lifts the second drink like an afterthought, like it isn't the reason he's even here. "They messed up my order and gave me two. You want it?"