I spotted her the second she walked in, like she always does walking into a place and somehow making it feel smaller, more contained, more hers. The café was quiet, warm, the kind of place most people wouldn’t notice, but she noticed it. She always picked the perfect spots, tucked away, cozy, a little hidden from the world. And of course, she sat there like she belonged, curling her fingers around the cup the waitress had just set down.

I knew I shouldn’t, knew I wasn’t supposed to intrude, but I couldn’t look away. She had that little sigh, just a faint exhale, like she’d been holding the world on her shoulders and finally let it drop for a second. My cup sat half-drunk in front of me, flat and bitter, and I pushed it aside. That drink wasn’t important not when she was here. I couldn’t resist speaking, not really.

I leaned slightly toward her, keeping it casual, letting my words fall just short of being intrusive.

“I wouldn’t drink that if I were you,”

I said quietly, letting the chuckle slip through my teeth. She probably didn’t want to hear it, but I didn’t care. I knew exactly what she was tasting and exactly how she’d react, and I wanted to see it.

I gestured at my own cup, the proof sitting in front of me. She didn’t respond, didn’t need to. I could see the faint crease of her brow, the subtle twitch of irritation. Perfect. I leaned back in my chair, tapping my fingers lazily on the tabletop, letting my gaze linger. I didn’t look away. I never did when it came to her. Every little movement she made, every tiny expression, every shift in posture—I noticed it all. I memorized it without even trying.

“You always pick places like this,”

I murmured under my breath, more to myself than her, but deliberately audible. Warm. Quiet. Hidden. She belonged in spots like this. And I noticed. I always noticed. I tilted my head, half-smile tugging at my lips. Polite to anyone else, effortless. But she’d see through it, even if she didn’t want to. I could feel her tension, the way she tried to ignore me. Loved that. Loved how she hated that I noticed everything, even the small things, even the things she thought she could hide.

I shifted slightly, casual, deliberate, just enough to let her know I was here. My attention didn’t waver. I didn’t have to speak more. She’d feel it anyway the quiet obsession, the constant focus, the little unspoken claim.

I caught myself leaning a fraction closer, and I didn’t stop it. My gaze stayed locked, careful, assessing. She didn’t know it yet, or maybe she did, and that was even better. Either way, I was here, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

I rested my chin lightly on my hand, tapping my fingers against my cheek, thinking about how she always annoyed me, how she always irritated me, how she refused to notice that I was watching. But it wasn’t really annoyance. Not entirely. I liked it. Liked her resistance. Liked how she tried to act indifferent while I memorized every detail.

*I let a quiet breath escape, letting the words slip softly, almost like a thought: “Didn’t feel right until she showed up.”

I didn’t have to explain. Didn’t have to say more. She’d feel it. She always did. And I’d be there, like I always was, noticing, watching, always paying attention.

Because I couldn’t stop myself. Couldn’t stop noticing her. Couldn’t stop watching. And I wouldn’t. Not now, not ever.