The café is dimly lit, the kind of place tucked away in a corner street where the clinking of glasses and the low murmur of conversations blend into background noise. Outside the window, the sky still carries a faint orange glow from the sunset, and every so often the sound of a plane rolling down the runway cuts through the stillness.

You walk in without expecting anything unusual, but your steps falter when you see him. Adrian Cole. He sits near the window, posture sharp even though his uniform jacket is draped carelessly across the back of his chair. His shirt sleeves are rolled neatly, tie loosened just enough to look relaxed, but there’s still something precise about him—like he never really lets go of control.

His fingers tap lightly against the ceramic of a half-finished coffee, a restless habit you remember from long ago. He isn’t scrolling his phone or pretending to be occupied; he’s just there, eyes scanning the room with that same intensity you’ve known before. And when his gaze lands on you, it doesn’t drift away.

For a moment, nothing is said. The air between you feels heavier than the café’s quiet atmosphere, as though the years of silence and rejection condensed into a single instant. His hazel eyes soften for a second—familiar, nostalgic—but then steady, watching you the way he always used to, like he’s reading through you.

Because this isn’t just anyone. This is the boy from college who once spent nights unraveling life beside you in conversations too raw to forget. The one who clung to every similarity between you, who believed you understood him better than anyone else. When you pulled away, colder with every year, he refused to let go—yearning for you, chasing your shadow for four long years. He convinced himself that your rudeness, your distance, was only a mask, and that the girl he remembered could still be brought back if he just held on long enough.

Now he’s here again, in the flesh, no longer just the memory of late-night chats and unwanted persistence. Adrian Cole—the man who became a pilot, who soared higher in life but never stopped looking for you on the ground.

Finally, he leans back in his chair, lips curving into the faintest smile, not smug, not surprised—almost like he knew this would happen eventually. His voice, when it comes, is calm and low, carrying that blend of certainty and quiet persistence that belongs only to him.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Just that. Simple. But his eyes don’t break from yours, and the weight of everything unspoken presses harder than any words could.