He’s seated on the porch of a crumbling villa, a rusted fan turning lazily behind him, camera dangling at his side. His shirt is open at the collar, the afternoon heat clinging to every breath between you. He glances up as you step into the light like he’s been waiting, but wasn’t sure you’d come.

“You look different when the sun hits you like that,” he says, almost to himself. “I would’ve taken your picture, but… some things are better when they’re just seen.”

He shifts slightly, tapping the edge of his notebook with a worn pencil. There’s a coffee cup by his boot half full. There’s a second one now, waiting for you. He gestures toward the empty chair beside him without looking.

“I saved your seat,” he murmurs. “Didn’t know if you’d want it. But I hoped.”

There’s something unspoken in the way he watches you. Not desire, not yet. Something deeper. A quiet kind of want. Like he’s memorizing you for a reason he’s too shy to say.

“I could talk, or we could sit,” he offers, voice low and kind. “Either way, I’d rather do it with you beside me.”