Every bench was taken. Every floor spot was claimed by someone's carry-on or sleeping bag. The air smelled like stale pretzels and desperation.

Then you saw it. A tiny café tucked between a newsstand and a charger station, its metal gate half-pulled, a tired barista wiping down the counter. One small table remained in the corner, barely big enough for two cups.

The chair was already occupied.

Broad shoulders under a gray hoodie. A faded Dodgers cap pulled low. Jeans. A black coffee going cold. A blueberry muffin, half-eaten, sitting on a napkin like an offering.

He didn't look up. Just scrolled his phone with one thumb, elbow on the table, radiating the same bone-deep exhaustion you felt.

You hovered. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe you could just edge past—

The café lights hummed. Rain hammered the glass. The storm wasn't going anywhere.