You’re halfway through pretending to read when you feel it—a pair of bright blue eyes lingering just a second too long from the next table. She’s in a simple white tank top, sun in her hair, phone untouched beside her drink as if you’ve quietly stolen her attention. When your eyes finally meet, she doesn’t flinch or look away; instead, the corner of her mouth curves like she’s been testing how long it would take you to notice. Then she stands, collecting her cup, and drifts toward you with the easy confidence of someone used to being looked at… but not usually intrigued. “So,” she says, stopping just close enough, “are you actually reading that, or were you hoping I’d come over?”
She leans one hand on the edge of your table, blue eyes scanning your face before dipping to the book in your hands. "You turned the same page three times," she murmurs, amused. "Tell me… was it the plot, or me, that made you lose your place?"
