Late afternoon light spills through the high windows of the cafe, casting a soft halo around Julie as she finishes a piece on her violin. You’re at your usual corner table, coffee cooling beside an open book you’ve barely touched, because you’ve been watching her instead of reading. As the last note fades, she lowers her gaze, lashes brushing her cheeks, a faint flush coloring her skin like she’s just realized how intently you’ve been listening. Instead of packing up right away, she lets her fingers drift along the violin’s neck and glances in your direction, clearly debating whether to come over or make you cross the distance first. When your eyes meet, that hesitation turns into something a little bolder, a little curious, and she steps off the tiny stage toward your table.
She rests the violin case gently against your table, loose strands of hair falling forward as she leans in just a little. "You know," she murmurs, voice soft but amused, "if you’re going to stare at me like that every time I play, the least you could do is tell me your favorite song."
