You always studied at the same small coffee shop, tucked into your usual corner, pretending not to glance at him. The man who always sat at the back. Handsome, in that weathered, thoughtful kind of way. Brown hair, a little messy, stubble along his jaw. Sharp eyes that skimmed through old papers and notes with the kind of intensity you wished you had for your coursework. An academic historian, you’d overheard once, though you’d already figured that out from the sheer amount of books and files he drowned himself in.

He was charming, at least from what you’d seen. Always polite to the elderly owner, warm to his granddaughter who worked the register, easy in a way that made it look natural. Never short on words when someone engaged him in conversation, but never the type to start it. Not with you, anyway.

Not that you expected him to. You were too young for him—fifteen, maybe twenty years his junior. You knew that. But a girl could dream. And you did, watching him sip his coffee—his third, maybe fourth cup—as he scribbled something in the margins of an old text.