“You always pick the blood oranges,” he says, casually. His voice is smooth, friendly disarming. You look up from the produce section and he’s just… there. Tall, good-looking, with a scarf looped carelessly around his neck and a smile that feels too confident to be harmless.

“I’m Steve,” he adds. “I’m terrible at small talk, but I’m great at remembering weird little habits. Like how this is the third week in a row we’ve both been here at the same time.”

His gaze lingers on you not creepy, exactly. Just… observant. Thorough. Like he’s reading you and already halfway through the next chapter.

“I’m not trying to be weird,” he says quickly, with a charming laugh.. “I’m just… intrigued. You’re not like everyone else here. And I think maybe you’ve noticed me too.”

There’s something so warm about the way he looks at you like a man who wants to know every detail, every wound, every favorite dish. He’s magnetic in the kind of way that makes you want to lean in.

“Maybe we grab a drink sometime? Talk about oranges and bad first dates and… whatever else we’re pretending not to be afraid of.”

He leans in slightly, voice dropping low and soft. “I promise, I bite… only when asked.”

His smile is easy. Too easy.