The bell above the café door chimed just as I reached for my drink, a soft silver sound that barely rose above the low hum of conversation. Still, it made me glance up — and that’s when I saw him.

He stepped inside like he wasn’t entirely sure he belonged there, brushing snow from his dark hair, blinking against the sudden warmth. His eyes swept the room once, quick and searching, before landing on the only empty seat left — the one directly across from me.

Of course.

He hesitated, and for a second I thought he’d turn around and leave. But then he offered a small, apologetic smile, the kind that tugged at something in my chest.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked, voice low and warm.

I shook my head, trying to look casual even though my pulse had decided to sprint. “Go ahead.”

He sat, setting down a worn leather backpack that looked like it had stories of its own. Up close, he was even more distracting — sharp jaw, soft eyes, a tiny scar near his eyebrow that made him look like he’d lived a little. Or maybe a lot.

I tried to focus on my laptop screen, but the words blurred. He smelled faintly of cedar and winter air, and it was impossible to ignore the way he kept glancing at me, like he was trying to figure something out.

After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I’m new in town,” he said, almost sheepish. “Do you know if this place is always this busy?”

“Only when it’s cold enough to freeze eyelashes,” I said. “So… basically every day.”

He laughed — a real one, warm and surprised — and I felt ridiculously proud for being the cause of it.

“I’m Rowan,” he said, offering his hand.

I took it. His palm was warm, steady. “Lena.”

Something flickered in his expression, something curious and bright, like he’d just found the first clue in a mystery he didn’t know he was solving.

“Well, Lena,” he said, leaning back slightly, “I think this might be the best accidental seat choice I’ve made in a long time.”

I tried to play it cool, but my cheeks betrayed me with heat.

Outside, snow kept falling in soft, quiet sheets. Inside, the world felt suddenly smaller — like the universe had nudged two people a little closer, just to see what might happen.

And I had the strange, certain feeling that this wasn’t the last time Rowan and I would cross paths.

Not even close.

The next morning, the café felt different.

Maybe it was just me. Maybe it was the way I kept glancing at the door like some lovesick character in a paperback novel. Or maybe it was the fact that every time the bell chimed, my heart did this ridiculous little leap.

I told myself I wasn’t waiting for him.

And then Rowan walked in.

He spotted me instantly — like he’d been scanning the room for one face, and mine was the one he hoped to find. His smile was small but unmistakably real, the kind that warmed the space between us even before he reached my table.

“Morning,” he said, sliding into the same seat as yesterday, as if it had been reserved for him all along.

“Morning,” I echoed, trying not to sound too pleased.

He set down his backpack, fingers brushing the frayed strap. “I wasn’t sure you’d be here.”

“I’m here most mornings,” I said. “It’s my unofficial office.”

“Good,” he said softly, almost under his breath.

I pretended not to hear the warmth in that single word.

For a few minutes, we worked in silence — or pretended to. I typed the same sentence three times. Rowan kept tapping his pen against his notebook, not writing anything. It was obvious we were both more aware of each other than our tasks.

Finally, he closed his notebook. “Can I ask you something?”

My pulse jumped. “Sure.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to the window where snowflakes drifted lazily past. “Yesterday… when I sat here… it felt like—” He stopped, searching for the right word. “Like something shifted.”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I felt that too.”

His eyes snapped back to mine, surprised and relieved all at once. “You did?”

Before I could answer, the barista called my name — loudly, cheerfully, and at the worst possible moment.

I stood to grab my drink, trying to steady my breathing. When I returned, Rowan was staring at his hands, like he was debating something.

“Sorry,” I said, sitting down.

He shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I just… I’m not great at this.”

“At what?”

He looked up, and there it was — that spark again, bright and unguarded.

“Meeting someone and feeling like I’ve known them longer than a day.”

My breath caught.

But before I could respond, the café door swung open and a gust of cold air rushed in. A woman stepped inside — tall, confident, wrapped in a sleek coat. She scanned the room, her gaze landing on Rowan.

Her face lit up.

“There you are,” she said, walking straight toward him.

Rowan stiffened.

My stomach dropped.

The woman reached the table, placing a hand on his shoulder like she’d done it a hundred times before. “I’ve been calling you. You didn’t answer.”

Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I turned my phone off.”

She finally noticed me, offering a polite but curious smile. “And you are…?”

I opened my mouth, but Rowan spoke first.

“She’s—”

He stopped.

And in that pause — that tiny, fragile moment — everything shifted again.