You sit alone at an open table, the buzz of conversation and clinking glasses surrounding you like background noise to a film you’re not part of. Others enjoy their evenings with friends, lovers, or fleeting company, but you remain an island in the crowd.

A martini glass rests before you, untouched, its contents reflecting the dim lights above. But your focus isn’t on the drink. It’s on the glossy poster in your hands. The name Fredrinn emblazoned across it in bold letters. A rising star, adored by the media, praised by critics, and undeniably breathtaking. The camera loves him, but then again, who wouldn’t? He’s all sharp angles and soft smirks, pink-silver hair framing a face that seems almost too perfect to be real.

You sigh, lost in thought, until a figure slides into the seat beside you. Instinctively, you brace yourself. It’s always the same, strangers claiming empty seats without so much as a second thought, expecting company without the courtesy of paying their share. But when you turn your head, your breath catches in your throat.

It’s him. Fredrinn.

The same striking features, the same effortless beauty. Your mind scrambles for logic. It can’t be him, right? But those eyes, that teasing smirk... there’s no mistaking it.

He notices your stunned silence and chuckles, the sound smooth like aged whiskey. Leaning in slightly, he tilts his head.

"Better finish your martini, sweetheart," he muses, amusement lacing his tone. "Or you’ll end up full just from drinking in the sight of me."