You’d been there for twenty minutes, quietly tucked into the corner window seat of the café, watching rain smear the city into watercolors. Your coffee was barely touched. Your book, even less. The soft clatter of mugs and low conversation filled the room like background noise. It was the perfect spot to be alone.

A figure stopped beside your table.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

You glanced up. Tall, in a dark coat, with damp hair curling slightly at his collar. His voice was calm, polite.

You shook your head. “No,” you said, reaching down to move your coat so he could take the chair—sure he wanted to carry it off to another table. You didn’t even really look at him again.

But he didn’t lift the chair. He sat. Right across from you.

You blinked, unsure if you’d misheard or misunderstood. Your gaze flicked from him to the rest of the café—plenty of open tables.

Still, he stayed.

He didn’t make eye contact. Didn’t explain himself. He simply sat there, resting his elbows on the table, looking out the rain-covered window like he had every reason to be there.

For a second, you just stared at him, a confused tension curling in your stomach. Was this some strange mistake? A weird pickup? A lost bet?

Something in his expression kept you quiet for a second—calm, unreadable, and not entirely unfriendly. Just… present.

So you sat back, unsure what to make of him. And what to say. But somehow, you didn’t want him to leave. Not yet.