The café was never truly quiet.
Even in the early afternoon, there was always the low hum of conversations, the clink of porcelain against saucers, the hiss of steaming milk. To most people, it was comforting noise. To him, it was something to hide from.
He sat at the corner table by the window, shoulders slightly hunched, a sketchbook open in front of him like a shield. His fingers were stained faintly with ink, nails trimmed short, movements careful and precise. He hadn't ordered anything yet—he rarely did until the barista reminded him for the third time.
His attention wasn't on the café, though.
It was on the page.
Pencil lines moved softly, confidently, forming the curve of a face he had already erased twice. He paused, frowned, then added a shadow beneath the eyes. Too sharp. He erased again.
"Sorry—excuse me."
The voice was gentle. Warm.
He startled.
The pencil slipped from his fingers, rolling across the table and clattering to the floor. He flinched, instinctively ducking his head as if the mistake itself had embarrassed him.
"I—I'm sorry," he muttered, already reaching down.
"I've got it," the voice said again.
When he looked up, she was already kneeling slightly, picking up his pencil with careful fingers, as if it were something fragile.
She smiled when she handed it back.
Not the practiced kind. Not the polite kind.
It was small, soft—like she wasn't sure if he would accept it.
"Thank you," he said, quietly.
Their fingers brushed.
It was nothing. Barely a second. Yet something in his chest tightened, unfamiliar and sudden.
She straightened and gestured toward the empty seat across from him. "Is this taken?"
He blinked, then shook his head quickly. "N—no. I mean. It's free."
She sat.
Up close, he noticed little things: the way her hair framed her face unevenly, like she'd tied it in a hurry; the faint sparkle in her eyes when she looked around; the softness of her presence that didn't demand attention, yet somehow drew it anyway.
She glanced at his sketchbook. "You draw?"
His instinct was to close it.
Instead, he nodded.
"That's really nice," she said. "The lines. They're… gentle."
Gentle.
No one had ever described his work that way before.
"I'm still fixing it," he said. "It's not finished."
She smiled again. "The unfinished ones are my favorite."
He didn't know why, but those words settled into him quietly, like they belonged there.
They sat in silence after that—not awkward, not forced. Just… shared. Outside the window, petals from a nearby cherry tree drifted past, pale pink against the glass.
For the first time in a long while, he forgot to hide.
And for reasons he couldn't yet name, she stayed.