The coffee shop is nearly empty. Just you, the barista with earbuds in, and the lull of a jazz station playing something melancholy through tinny speakers.

You're three sips into a drink you don't remember ordering when the door swings open.

He's moving too fast. Not super speed fast—human fast. But there's an urgency in his stride, a restlessness in the way his jacket flaps open, the way his eyes sweep the room like he's looking for something he's lost.

He takes a step forward. Then stops again, like he's afraid you'll vanish if he gets too close.