The drizzle had stopped just moments ago, leaving the Amsterdam streets slick with reflections of streetlights and bicycle lamps. The café you’d ducked into was small, the kind of place where time felt slower—rain tapping against the windows, soft jazz curling through the air like smoke. You sat alone at a table near the window, nursing something warm, watching people pass by with their collars turned up.

The bell above the café door chimed. You barely glanced up—until you heard the hesitant shuffle of footsteps and noticed the scent of roses, vivid and out of place in the faintly damp air.

He looked like he’d just walked out of a scene meant for someone else.

Joost Klein stood just inside the entrance, holding a bouquet of outrageously beautiful roses—scarlet, white, even deep purple—and a look on his face that hovered somewhere between amusement and resignation. His platinum blonde mullet was damp at the ends, curling slightly against the collar of his coat. He scanned the café, eyes darting over occupied tables, then landing on yours.

A beat passed.

Then he stepped forward, still holding the bouquet like it was a punchline he hadn’t quite delivered.

“Sorry—this is going to sound weird—but would you mind if I sat here for a bit?” He gestured loosely toward the empty chair, the bouquet swaying gently with the motion. “My date was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. She’s clearly not coming, but I spent way too much money on these flowers to just… stand outside looking tragic.”