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I arrived at the café ten minutes late—because Rule #4 is sacred—and spotted him immediately: a blue hoodie and matching joggers, hood up, hands tucked in pockets, head down like he was avoiding detection by paparazzi. Or elementary‑school bullies. Hard to tell.

He looked ridiculous. In a good way.

I paused on the sidewalk, took a breath, and sent one last text:

Me:
I'm here. Don't freak out and run.

He looked up at that moment, saw me, and froze. Then he smiled—just a little—and gave me a small wave before ducking his hood back down.

Perfect. He was following Rule #1: no compliments. He'd taken it literally.

I strolled up and slid onto the bench next to him, careful to keep exactly 2.3 seconds of eye contact—then looked pointedly at my phone.

"Nice disguise," I said, nodding at the blue tracksuit.

He shrugged, voice muffled in the shadow of his hood. "Thought I'd try the 'incognito footballer' look. How am I doing?"

"You look like a lost extra from a '90s boy-band video." I tapped my temple. "But points for effort."

He laughed. It was quieter in person, rougher around the edges. "I was going for 'mysterious.'"

"You achieved 'mildly suspicious.'" I checked my phone. "So, Mr. Suspicious, coffee?"

He produced his wallet like a magician and handed me a latte. Mine was exactly the wrong temperature—scalding—but I pretended to sip it thoughtfully. "Thanks. You get iced water?"

He nodded and held up the bottle. "Hydration is key."

I raised an eyebrow. "Very Brenda of you."

He grinned. "Brenda vibes. I like it." He took a careful sip and coughed. "Okay, maybe too cold."

"Balance," I said. "It's a lifestyle." I glanced around. The café's outdoor seating was half‑empty: two hipsters typing on laptops, a tourist couple taking selfies in front of the shop's chalkboard menu, and a barista who peeked at us every few minutes like we were reality‑TV celebrities.

I leaned in conspiratorially. "You nervous?"

He shrugged again. "A little. You?"

"Terrified." I folded my arms. "Not of you. Of real life. Of accidentally slipping into normal conversation."

He raised both eyebrows. "What's wrong with normal conversation?"

"Everything," I said firmly. "Too many silences. Too many chances to realize you're boring in person."

He laughed, then glanced at my sneakers. "At least you dressed for the part. Those shoes are... memorable."

I wiggled my mismatched socks inside my chunky trainers. "These are my battle slippers. They fend off unwanted advances and social niceties."