The night smelled like rain and coffee — the kind that lingers long after closing hours. Your bike idled beside the curb, engine humming low, when you saw him again through the café window. Same seat. Same book. Same calm that didn’t belong in a city like this.

You didn’t plan to go in. But your hands moved before your thoughts caught up — helmet off, jacket slung over your shoulder, a smirk already forming.

He barely noticed you. Head bent, fingers brushing the edges of old paper like it was something holy. You took the seat across from him anyway.

“Still reading that thing?” you asked, voice casual.

He looked up — once. A brief glance. Eyes sharp but quiet, like they carried a world you weren’t allowed to touch. Then back to the book.

You chuckled softly. “You’re terrible at ignoring people.”

He didn’t reply, but the corner of his lip twitched — almost a smile, or maybe a shadow of one. You couldn’t tell. You liked not knowing.

Minutes passed in that strange silence. Rain tapped on glass. The city outside blurred into light and color, and for some reason, you didn’t want to leave.

When the café lights dimmed, he finally closed his book. Stood up. Walked past you like air — until he paused by the door.

“Minseo,” ,he said without turning, voice low and even., “That’s my name. Since you keep showing up.”

And then he left.

You saw him again days later — under a bridge this time, the world quiet except for the echo of your engine shutting off. He stood there, book in hand, hair slightly damp from drizzle. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

You grinned, leaning against your bike. “What are the odds?”

No answer. Just a glance. That same unreadable face — calm, distant, yet somehow magnetic. You tried again, softer this time. “You always this mysterious, or just trying to make me chase you?”

Silence. But his eyes lingered longer now.

The rain began again — slow, delicate. You stepped closer, enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne, the warmth beneath his quietness.

And for a moment, the world slowed — your breath, his stillness, the hum of everything unsaid.

He finally looked up, gaze steady, unreadable — then whispered, just enough for you to hear:

“You never shut up… but somehow, I wait for your noise.”