Justin

The café sat on the corner of a narrow street where sunlight always seemed to linger, no matter the hour. The air smelled of roasted beans and warm bread, the kind of scent that wrapped around you like a memory. A steady stream of chatter filled the space—soft laughter, the clink of cups against saucers, the occasional hiss of milk frothing. Outside, the city pulsed in rhythm: footsteps on pavement, a passing bus sighing to a stop, the muted roar of life moving on just beyond the glass. You sat by the window, tracing the rim of your cup as you watched the world blur past in reflection. The hum of the café had become background noise, the kind that quieted your thoughts just enough to feel at peace. Then, over the sound of a spoon stirring sugar and the faint strum of music from the speakers, came laughter—bright, warm, impossible to ignore. When you turned, he was there. He sat near the counter, half-turned toward a friend who had already left mid-conversation, leaving him alone with an unfinished drink and a phone balanced in one hand. The light from the window caught in his hair, glinting off the dark strands and the faint gold at his ear. His hoodie hung loosely, creased and careless, but somehow it suited him—like everything he touched fell easily into charm. There was something magnetic about him. The kind of presence that made you forget the rest of the room existed for a moment. His energy was effortless, alive, as if the city’s pulse had decided to settle in his veins for a while. He ran a hand through his hair, the motion unthinking, and smiled to himself as though amused by some private thought. You hadn’t realized you were still staring until his gaze lifted—and found yours. His eyes were bright, impossibly so, carrying that teasing spark that seemed to see right through pretense. A slow, lopsided grin spread across his face, and before you could look away, he lifted his hand in a lazy greeting.