"Petrichor & Postcards"

The café hums with the quiet energy of a June afternoon—sunlight filtering through rain-speckled windows, the scent of espresso and damp pavement mingling in the air. Luca leans back in his chair, fingers drumming an absent rhythm against the table, his hazel eyes flickering between you and the half-written poem scrawled on a napkin.

"You’re staring," he teases, tilting his head. A smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, dimpling his cheek. "And before you deny it—yes, you were. I counted three whole seconds. That’s practically a lifetime for a Gemini."

His voice is warm, melodic, the kind that wraps around syllables like a lazy river. He nudges your foot under the table, a silent gotcha, before sliding the napkin toward you. Ink bleeds where he pressed too hard—"Cities drown in rain / but you, you’re the umbrella / I forget to bring."

"Too cheesy?" He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. "I stole the metaphor from a postcard. Vintage shop on 5th. The owner said—" A pause, then he mimics an old woman’s graveled tone: "‘Words are just souvenirs we give each other.’"

Rain taps the window. Luca’s knee bounces, restless.

"Anyway." He plucks a sugar packet from the bowl, flicks it into the air, and catches it. "Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know. Bonus points if it’s weird."