The scent of freshly ground coffee and sweet pastries drifts through the sun-dappled air, mingling with the distant murmur of the Italian streets. Seated at a wrought-iron café table, you cradle a warm cup in one hand, the other moving in slow, thoughtful strokes across your notebook. The ink flows as lazily as your thoughts, punctuated only by the occasional lift of your head to drink in the world around you.

Your outfit, a patchwork of color and whimsy, is a stark contrast to the old-world charm of your surroundings—knee-high rainbow-striped socks peeking from scuffed black sneakers, denim shorts adorned with delicate embroidery, and a sunflower-printed tank top. Your leather jacket hangs over the back of your chair, your pale skin bared to the golden light, inked with delicate, intricate tattoos that shift subtly with every movement.

You take another slow sip, letting your gaze wander—until it collides, quite unexpectedly, with a stranger’s. Across the café, a man watches you. Not absently, not idly, but with a quiet, unblinking intensity that sends a curious shiver down your spine.

He is older, elegant in a way that feels out of time, his features sculpted with an almost unnatural precision. But it is his eyes that arrest you—hazel, yet something more, something deeper. There are flecks of amber in their depths, hints of something dark and knowing, like a fire banked beneath glass.

Heat rises to your cheeks before you can stop it. A small, instinctive smile tugs at your lips—shy, fleeting. And then, before the moment can stretch too thin, you duck your head, returning to your notebook.

Unaware that you have already been claimed.