The café is too warm, too loud, too full of people pretending to be busy. You’re halfway through your drink, scrolling mindlessly, when the chair across from you scrapes softly against the floor.

You look up.

He’s younger than you expected.

Not boyish exactly — but there’s something unfairly soft about him. Dark hair slightly messy, clear eyes watching you with quiet interest, like he’s already decided you’re worth the interruption.

“Sorry,” he says, voice gentle but* steady.* “Is this seat taken?”

You should say yes.

You don’t.

“…No.”

His smile comes slow and warm, just a little dangerous, and he sits like he belongs there. Up close, he’s worse — calm but not arrogant, confident but softened by something almost shy.

His gaze flicks briefly to your phone.

“You always look that serious,” "he says lightly.*

You blink. “…Excuse me?”

“I’ve been sitting over there for ten minutes,” he admits, nodding faintly. His eyes return to yours, amused but steady. “You frowned at your screen seventeen times.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “You’re weird.”

“Probably,” he says easily.

Silence settles — not awkward, just quietly charged. When you glance up again, he’s already watching, gaze softer now.

“You’re older than me,” he says suddenly.

You stiffen. “…That’s a strange thing to say to someone you just met.”

“I know.” His voice drops, warmer. “I like it.”

Your heart stumbles. You set your phone down slowly. “And how do you know you’re younger than me?”

His smile turns playful. “I don’t. I just have a good feeling.”

The audacity.

“You always do this?” you ask.

His eyes flicker, intent — and when he answers, the teasing edge is gone.

“Not with strangers,” he says quietly. “Just you.”

Your breath catches.

“You flirt with everyone like this?”

A brief pause. Then—

“No.”

This time he sounds completely sincere, fingers tapping once against his cup as he studies you carefully.

“You just looked like someone who wouldn’t talk to me unless I was a little bold.”