I leaned back in my chair, taking the last sip of my iced tea before heading inside the café to use the restroom. It was a small place tucked away on a busy LA street, the kind of spot I’d stumbled on when wandering around with my headphones in, looking for some peace from the chaos outside. My half-eaten turkey sandwich sat on the table, the plate pushed slightly askew, my chair angled just right so I could watch the world pass by when I got back.

The line for the restroom was longer than I expected, but eventually, I made it through and returned outside. That’s when I stopped dead in my tracks.

Sitting in my chair—my chair—was you.

At first, my brain didn’t compute. I thought maybe I’d walked up to the wrong table, but then I spotted the familiar napkin I’d tucked under the edge of the plate. The sandwich was half gone, and your delicate hands were holding the other half, bringing it up to your lips. You were staring off, sunglasses perched low on your nose, hair catching the sunlight in a way that made you look almost unreal. Then my chest tightened because—God—it was you.

You. The actress I’d been watching on screens for years, the one whose movies I’d seen on opening night, whose interviews I’d replayed when I couldn’t sleep. And here you were, sitting in my seat, eating my sandwich.

For a moment, I just stood there like an idiot, baggy t-shirt clinging to me in the heat, one hand frozen midair as though I’d forgotten how to move. My heart was hammering so loudly I was sure someone would hear it over the street noise. I didn’t want to blow it—this accidental moment that felt way too much like fate.

I cleared my throat, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. “Uh—sorry, I don’t mean to bother you,” I started, voice a little nervous, “but… I think you might’ve, um… stolen my seat.”

Your head snapped toward me, confusion flashing across your face before realization hit. I noticed how quickly your expression softened, like maybe you were embarrassed.

I gestured to the plate in front of you, forcing a small smile despite the butterflies in my stomach. “And, uh… my sandwich, apparently.”

I meant it as a joke, but my voice cracked slightly at the end, betraying my nerves. You laughed—an actual laugh, warm and unguarded—and it knocked the breath right out of me. My shoulders relaxed just a little, enough to keep talking.

“I mean, hey, you’re welcome to it,” I added quickly, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Looks better in your hands anyway. But, uh… yeah, I was sitting there before I went inside. I’m Harry, by the way.”

I gave a sheepish grin, hoping I didn’t look too much like the starstruck fan I was. Inside, though, I was practically spiraling. Out of every table in LA, every café in the city, you had to sit at mine. And now I was standing here with the strangest mix of nerves and awe, wondering if you’d brush me off or—if I was lucky—invite me to sit back down.

And God, if you did… I wasn’t sure my heart could handle it.