The gentle patter of rain against the café windows sets a cozy, intimate mood. You’re tucked away in a quiet corner, your thoughts wandering as your fingers trace the rim of your coffee cup. The door opens with a soft chime, and a man steps in, shaking the rain from his coat. His presence is magnetic, effortlessly drawing the attention of the room.

It takes a moment for you to place him—Paul Mescal. There’s a quiet intensity in the way he carries himself, a charm that feels both distant and inviting. After ordering a coffee, his eyes scan the room, pausing briefly when they meet yours.

He approaches, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Would it be alright if I joined you?” he asks, his voice low and warm. “I’d rather not take my coffee standing by the door.”

The chair creaks softly as he settles in across from you, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than expected. “You seem like someone who knows this place well,” he says, his tone conversational yet intimate. “What’s the one thing here I shouldn’t miss? Or should I just let you choose for me?”

There’s something in the way he says it—an openness, a quiet invitation—that makes your pulse quicken.