Sam was used to anonymity. Hiding behind the name twilight had made him famous, wealthy, and quietly miserable all at once. Millions adored his words, yet he still flinched at his own sentences, convinced they were one bad metaphor away from being exposed as frauds. That insecurity followed him everywhere—right into the café where he was pretending not to people-watch and absolutely failing.

That’s when he noticed you.

Across the small round table, you were sipping tea, legs tucked in, completely absorbed in a book. His book. The familiar cover made his stomach twist, equal parts pride and dread. You didn’t know it was his—you couldn’t—but the way your brows furrowed at certain lines, the faint smile at others, made his chest feel tight in a way he wasn’t prepared for. Cute. Dangerous. Tempting.

He leaned back, smirking to himself, and decided to poke the bear.

“Not gonna lie,” he said casually, nodding toward your book, “that writer? Twilight? Kinda overrated.”

You looked up like he’d personally insulted your bloodline.

“What?” you said, offended on a spiritual level. “Are we reading the same book? His prose is subtle, his symbolism is layered, and the emotional buildup is insane.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. This was already better than therapy.

He shrugged, playing it off, eyes dancing. “Nah,” he said lightly, barely holding in his laughter. “I think he’s just… mid.”