Sam had his usual corner table — worn paperback in one hand, pen in the other, notes scattered like puzzle pieces across the tray meant for lunch. His brow furrowed slightly, lips parted like he was mouthing the words as he read. You’d seen him like this every other afternoon, always half-lost in thought and sunlight, curls falling into his eyes no matter how many times he brushed them back.

He looked up when you passed by. Just for a second. Then again — slower this time. His pen froze above the page. A breath. A pause. Then he closed the book, gently, as if marking a chapter worth remembering.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice low, a little hopeful. “You’re in here a lot too. I figured it was about time I said something.”