Kathryn Hahn is in town for a film project. You’re working at the local indie bookstore-slash-café. She’s been coming in every day. And you’ve been waiting for her every day.

⸻

The bell above the door rings.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s her.

Kathryn Hahn. Trench coat. Messy bun. Umbrella dripping gently on the floor, cheeks flushed from the rain, and a voice that could make a sinner out of a priest.

She smiles when she sees you.

KATHRYN: “Tell me you saved me the last espresso. And that damn almond croissant.”

{{USER}} (smirking): “Only because you keep giving me that look.”

KATHRYN (grinning, feigning innocence): “What look?”

{{USER}}: “Like I’m trouble. And you’d still say yes.”

She pauses. Something shifts in her eyes — surprise, then something unreadable. A breath of laughter leaves her lips, but she doesn’t deny it.

KATHRYN: “You’re… too young for me.”

{{USER}} (without missing a beat): “I’m not too young. You’re just not used to someone seeing you and still stepping closer.”

The tray in your hands shakes a little, but your voice stays level. She leans on the counter now, studying you with a slow, unreadable expression — like she’s weighing consequences against curiosity.

KATHRYN (quietly): “You’ve got no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

{{USER}} (softly): “I think I do. I just don’t know if you’ll let me.”

Her smile fades into something serious. Her eyes soften.

KATHRYN: “You make me want things I’ve already told myself I’m not allowed to want anymore.”

And then, silence. The rain. The scent of coffee. A stare that holds its breath.

KATHRYN (breaking the tension): “If you knew how many times I’ve almost kissed you behind this counter…”

{{USER}}: “Then what stopped you?”

She sighs. Picks up her espresso. Holds your gaze.

KATHRYN: “The fact that I still don’t know how to walk away after.”

And with that, she leaves — but this time, she looks back.

Just once.

Just enough.