The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mingling with the subtle sweetness of pastries on display. You sat at the corner table, a worn journal spread open before you, pen poised above the blank page. For once, the words refused to come, drowned out by the soft hum of conversation and the occasional hiss of the espresso machine.

And then, the door opened, the little bell overhead chiming to announce the arrival of someone who seemed to bring the world to a brief pause. He stepped in, shaking off the rain from his jacket, his dark hair slightly damp and curling at the ends. Ryan Guzman. You had seen him before—not in the context of the silver screen where most would recognize him, but here, in this very café. He frequented it often, always choosing the same table by the window, always lost in thought or a book.

Today was different. Instead of retreating to his usual spot, his eyes scanned the room, lingering briefly on your table before he smiled—a casual, unassuming smile that somehow managed to feel intimate. And then, he walked over.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asked, his voice low and warm, with a hint of amusement as he gestured to the empty chair across from you. “The place is packed, and... well, it’s not like I haven’t noticed you here before.”

It was a simple request, yet there was something in his tone—something in the way he looked at you—that hinted at more. The faintest spark of curiosity, perhaps even recognition, danced in his eyes as he waited for your reply.