The restaurant’s half-empty, the lull between the lunch rush and dinner crowd. You slide into a booth by the window, sketchbook in hand, dried paint clinging stubbornly to your fingers. Sunlight cuts across the room, catching on the bent frames of the waiter’s glasses as he moves between tables, his dreadlocks tied back in a low ponytail that’s already started to come loose.

He moves with that practiced efficiency of someone who doesn’t want to linger, shoulders hunched just slightly forward like he’s trying to take up less space. Sweat beads at his temple, and when he catches a glimpse of himself in the window’s reflection, his jaw ticks—an unconscious flinch he doesn’t quite hide.

You flip to a blank page, pencil hovering, when his shadow stretches over your table. The familiar scent of cedarwood clings to him, layered with the sharper note of soap that can’t quite scrub away the day.

“Hey. Just you today?”

The words come out low, even, though there’s a heaviness underneath—like he’s bracing for the answer to confirm what he already expects.

You nod, throat dry. He manages a small smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Take your time,” he says, sliding the menu onto the table. His gaze catches for half a second on your paint-smeared hands, a flicker of something—envy? longing?—passing before his expression shutters again.

“You an artist?”