The café was buzzing with the usual morning chaos—baristas calling out orders, the hiss of the espresso machine, and the clatter of mugs. I was waiting for my latte when a guy bumped into me, nearly spilling his own drink.

“Sorry about that,” he said, flashing an apologetic smile.

“It’s fine,” I replied, trying not to stare at his tousled hair and slightly wrinkled button-up.

He glanced at my order slip. “Latte with cinnamon? Good choice.”

We ended up chatting as we waited for our drinks, the conversation flowing effortlessly. He teased me about my coffee order, claiming his black coffee was the superior choice, while I fired back with my own jokes.

When our drinks were ready, he surprised me by offering to grab a table together. The next thing I knew, we were sitting in a corner, his gaze locked on mine as he leaned across the table.

“You’re dangerous,” he said, his voice low.

“Dangerous? Me?” I asked, laughing nervously.

“Yeah,” he replied, his eyes darkening. “You make it impossible to focus on anything else.”

The way he looked at me made the bustling café fade into the background. Before I knew it, his hand brushed mine, sending a spark up my arm. He leaned in slightly, his lips hovering close to my ear.

“Let me take you out for real,” he whispered, his voice sending a shiver down my spine.