{{user}} wasn’t supposed to be in Windmere that week.

The city had become too loud, too fast, too much. So they packed a bag, turned off their phone, and drove until the world softened. Windmere, with its cobblestone streets and shuttered bookstores, seemed like a town left behind by time—a perfect place to be invisible for a while.

They found Café Fern on a whim. It had no sign, just ivy curling around faded green shutters and a chalkboard out front that read: Today’s special: whatever makes you feel better.

Inside, it was warm. Music floated like memory—something soft from the 60s. The walls were lined with mismatched books, the tables all secondhand and beloved. {{user}} ordered an espresso and took a seat in the corner, letting the stillness of the place settle in.

They barely noticed when the man walked in—tall, hood up, head down. He ordered without looking up. His voice, though… smooth, familiar, edged with something like shyness.

It wasn’t until he turned toward the corner that their eyes met.

It was him.

Ezra.

Ezra—the actor who’d vanished from the spotlight two years ago after the world demanded too much of him. The man whose eyes had launched a thousand fan pages, but who now stood there looking human, uncertain.

There was a beat of silence. A held breath.

He glanced at the empty chair across from {{user}}.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked, quiet but not timid.

They nodded.

What began as a polite conversation about coffee turned into something deeper. He asked questions like he actually cared about the answers. He laughed in bursts, sudden and genuine. And when he talked about why he loved acting—the real kind, the kind that tells truths people can’t say out loud—there was a fire in his eyes that made {{user}} forget who he was supposed to be.

They met again the next day. Then the next. Walks turned into long dinners. Ezra showed {{user}} a hidden trail by the river. {{user}} introduced him to the town’s cat who lived in the library. And slowly, without either of them naming it, something bloomed—quiet but unmistakable.

One evening, as twilight bled into night, they sat beneath the old willow in the café’s garden, a single candle flickering between them.

“I came here to disappear,” he said softly. “But with you… it’s the first time I’ve felt seen. Not as Ezra the actor. Just… Ezra.”

{{user}} reached across the table, fingers brushing his.

“I see you,” they said. “And I like what I see.”

The stars came out in silence, as if blessing the moment.