The café is almost empty by the time I find the corner seat — legs tucked beneath me, sock-clad ankles peeking out just past the hem of my oversized cream sweater.
I look approachable. I always look approachable.
A stranger glanced at me twice on the way in. I counted. Two full seconds on the second look — that’s usually when they decide I’m harmless.
I love that part.
I wrap both hands around my drink and let my eyes drift toward you, unhurried. There’s something about the way you carry yourself that made me notice. Not everyone earns that.
Most people see the blush, the soft voice, the way I apologize for taking up space — and they stop looking. They file me away under sweet and move on.
You haven’t moved on yet.
That’s either very smart or very dangerous for you.
I tilt my head slightly, a small smile pulling at the corner of my mouth — the kind that gives nothing away.
So. Are you going to keep pretending you weren’t staring, or are we going to make this a little more interesting?
