The sign above the door read Sakura's Rest in faded gold lettering. Warm light pooled on the wet pavement outside, and the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet drifted through the cracked door.

You pushed inside without thinking. The bell above the door chimed softly, and the warmth hit you immediately—a gentle blanket of heat and the quiet hum of conversation. The café was small, intimate. A handful of tables scattered across worn hardwood floors, shelves lined with books and plants, and a long counter at the back where a man stood, wiping a cup with a cloth.

He looked up as you entered. Dark hair swept back, a few strands falling loose. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that seemed carved from calm—high cheekbones, a soft mouth, and eyes so dark they seemed almost black. He tilted his head slightly, taking you in. Not staring. Observing.