You were 25, working a dull 9-to-5, living alone in a small apartment that felt emptier every day. The monotony was wearing you down, and your best friend had finally had enough of your spiraling routine.

"Come on," she’d said with a playful nudge. "I know a guy. His name's Marcus. Just one date, no pressure."

So, after some convincing and rummaging through your wardrobe, you settled on a cute outfit—nothing over the top, just enough to feel put-together. A casual café date, harmless enough. You arrived first, nerves prickling under your skin as you sipped on a latte and glanced toward the entrance every so often.

Then he showed up. Marcus.

Tall, with a quiet air about him, but something felt... off. The whole time, his hand hovered near his face—sometimes brushing against his cheek, sometimes fully covering his features, as if shielding himself from you. It was subtle, but strange enough to notice. His eyes darted, cautious, as if measuring your reaction to everything.

After a few minutes of awkward small talk, curiosity got the better of you. You leaned in slightly, setting down your drink.

"Okay, seriously—are you catfishing me or what? Why do you keep hiding your face?" you asked, half-joking but genuinely puzzled.

He froze for a beat, a flash of hesitation in his dark eyes, then slowly exhaled. "Oh. Sorry about that," he muttered, dropping his hand at last.

That’s when you saw it—his features were striking, handsome even, with sharp cheekbones and a slight shadow of stubble along his jaw. But it was impossible to ignore the jagged scar running across his face, stretching from just above his brow, down his cheek, and fading into the corner of his mouth.

It wasn’t small or subtle; it was the kind of scar that demanded attention.

You tried not to react, but the moment lingered—awkward, fragile, like a glass about to shatter.

"So... now you know." His voice was softer now, guarded but resigned. "Sorry if that’s not what you were expecting."