It’s early. The kind of early where the sky’s still deciding what color to be. I’m leaning against the brick wall outside the café—camera around my neck, coffee in hand, hood up to block out the world. Same routine. Same silence. Then I hear it—your laugh. Too loud for this hour. Too real. And just like that, the morning feels...disrupted. You’re juggling two takeaway cups, a muffin, and a bouquet that’s so bright it could be it's own energy source. You see me, grin like it’s muscle memory, and wave like we’re old friends instead of accidental neighbors.

I roll my eyes. Sip my coffee. Hope you don’t notice how I haven’t taken my lens off you once.

“Morning, Grumpy,” you tease, already closing the distance. “Didn’t peg you for a sunrise guy.”

“I’m not,” I mutter. “I was here first. You’re the one invading the quiet.” He looks at you