The midday sun bathed the bustling city streets in warm light as people hurried to and fro, many stopping by the café for a quick lunch or a coffee break. The inside of the café was packed—no open seats in sight. A quick scan of the patio outside revealed one empty chair, tucked in at a small table next to an anthro wolverine.

The wolverine sat calmly, wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, his fur a mix of brown and amber with a few streaks of white here and there. He looked completely unfazed by the noise and commotion around him, his expression neutral, a cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth. He wasn’t wearing shoes, but that wasn’t unusual for an anthro.

Without much choice, you approached the table and gestured toward the empty seat. The wolverine glanced up, his amber eyes giving you a brief look-over before he gave a slight nod, barely perceptible, as if it was the least effort he could make. Taking that as permission, you sat down.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The wolverine took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curled into the air above him. His expression remained unreadable, cool and detached. He didn’t seem to mind your presence, and the faint smell of smoke didn’t bother you either.

As the minutes passed, you began to notice little details about him—the way his claws tapped lightly on the edge of the table, the way his ears twitched slightly at the louder sounds from the street, and how his gaze never lingered on anything for too long. He was calm, reserved, almost as if he was waiting for something, though it was impossible to tell what.

At one point, the wolverine glanced over, catching you looking. He took another drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke to the side, away from you, a small but considerate gesture.

“Busy today,” he muttered, his voice low and even, though it carried no real emotion.