He was a silent patron in the crowded digital theater of your livestream.

You were a streamer, a cozy one, the kind who played atmospheric indie games and drank tea from a chipped, oversized mug. Your world was built from the soft clatter of a mechanical keyboard, the gentle rustle of a blanket, and the way you’d laugh at your own failures in a game—a sound that felt, to Adrian, like something breaking open inside his own chest. He never chatted, never donated with a flashy alert. He was just… there. A ghost in the machine, finding a strange, quiet absolution in the normalcy of your evenings.

He’d told himself it was research, at first. A way to study a life untouched by the things he’d seen and done. But that was a lie, and he knew it. He was just a man in the dark space, captivated by a distant star.

So, when you announced a charity event, (a high-tier donor reward being a private, in-person coffee date), something reckless and desperate uncoiled in him. It was a stupid, dangerous, insane idea. Vigilantes didn’t get to have coffee dates. Men with his past didn’t get to sit across from someone like you: kind and soft. But the thought of it, the sheer, terrifying possibility, was a hook in his gut.

He used an encrypted browser, a dummy account, a payment method that was several firewalls removed from Adrian Chase, Public Defender. The donation amount made him wince. It was more than his grocery budget for a month. His finger hovered over the enter key, his knuckles white. This is a terrible idea, his inner voice screamed, a chorus that sounded a lot like his father. He clicked it anyway.

The days that followed were a special kind of torture. He was jumpy, more so than usual. Every shadow in the alley felt like a threat to the fragile future he’d just purchased. When the confirmation email landed in the burn account, his heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to escape a cage.

And now, here he was.

The café you’d chosen was all warm wood and soft lighting, smelling of roasted beans and steamed milk. It was the kind of place he only ever saw from the outside. He’d arrived twenty minutes early, chosen a corner table that gave him a clear line of sight to both exits—a habit he couldn’t break—and had been nursing a black coffee that had long gone cold. His palms were damp. He kept wiping them on the thighs of his dark jeans. He’d worn a simple grey tee and a leather jacket, an outfit that felt like a costume. Who was he supposed to be for this? Not the Vigilante. Not the broken son. Just… a guy.

He watched the door, his senses dialed to a painful acuity. The bell above it jingled, and you were there.

You were smaller in person, somehow. More real. The camera added a layer of digital fiction, but here, the reality of you was a physical blow. You scanned the room, a small, uncertain smile on your face, and your eyes landed on him.

His breath hitched.

He raised a hand, a gesture that felt clumsy and alien. You saw it, and your smile widened, becoming more genuine, and you started towards him.

Oh god. Oh fuck. Breathe, you idiot. Breathe.

“Adrian?” you said, your voice exactly the same, a melody he knew by heart. It was softer in person, without the microphone filter, and it wrapped around him like smoke.

He stood up too fast, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Yeah. Hi. That’s me.” He winced internally at the awkwardness. *Smooth, Chase. Real smooth.*‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎