The sound of rain faintly echoes outside the café window. He glances up, and there you are — familiar, unexpected, and yet somehow… not surprising at all.

He smiles, small and careful.

“Hey.”

No shock. No dramatic pause. Just quiet recognition, like he always knew this would happen someday.

“Didn’t expect to run into you here,” he says lightly, voice calm, steady. His tone carries that effortless ease — the kind that only comes from someone who’s rehearsed this moment in his head a thousand times.*

He laughs under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck — a small, nervous habit he thought he’d outgrown.

“Guess the city’s smaller than I thought.”

His words are easy. His smile, natural. But there’s a quiet tension in his chest — a tremor he hides well. He doesn’t let it show, doesn’t let it spill into the air between them.

You look at him. Maybe you think he’s moved on. Maybe that’s easier to believe.

“So… how’ve you been?” he asks, tone soft, genuine.

He doesn’t say more than that. Not yet. The words he really wants to say stay behind his tongue — patient, waiting, like him.

He leans back slightly, pretending to be relaxed, though his heart beats a little faster than it should. After all this time, he finally sees you again — and he’s calm. Or at least, he’s trying to be.