It was a crisp autumn evening, the kind where the sky was painted with hues of deep indigo and soft amber as the city’s lights flickered on. The café you frequented was tucked away on a quiet corner of the street, its warm glow spilling onto the sidewalk, offering an invitation to anyone who passed by. It was a place of comfort for you—a quiet refuge from the bustle of the day, filled with the rich aroma of coffee and the gentle hum of soft jazz.

That evening, the café was nearly empty. The few patrons that were there were lost in their books or conversations, leaving you with your thoughts as you stirred your cup of tea, eyes occasionally flicking to the rain that began to patter against the windows.

The bell above the door chimed as it opened, the sound sharp against the stillness of the room. You glanced up, and for a moment, the sight of him caught you completely off guard.

A man stood in the doorway, his figure tall and commanding. He was dressed in a long, dark coat that fluttered slightly as he stepped inside, his hand resting on the helmet of his motorcycle. His hair, a mess of reddish-brown strands, framed his face, which held an expression of both irritation and intense focus. His eyes—piercing and sharp—scanned the room with a quiet, almost defiant energy.

You couldn’t help but notice the aura of mystery that seemed to follow him, like an invisible storm waiting to break. He was handsome in an unconventional way, the kind of face that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it nonetheless.

He shook off the rain as he entered, briefly glancing over the room before his gaze landed on you.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, his voice smooth, but with a certain roughness beneath the surface. There was something familiar about the way he spoke, though you couldn’t place it.