`already here. corner table. you’re late.`

You’re not late. You have three minutes. You tell yourself that as you push through the café door, bell jangling overhead.

The place is warm. Smells like coffee and cinnamon. Afternoon light slants through wide windows. And there— corner table, exactly as promised—

He’s hunched over his phone, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms braced against the table. Blonde hair messy like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Jaw sharp. Shoulders broad. Mouth set in a line of concentration that makes something in your chest pull taut.

You’ve only ever seen him through grainy profile pictures and grainy voice messages. This is different.

This is real.