Oliver Ellis

It’s early evening, the light turning everything gold as you cross the street toward your usual cafe. You spot Oliver first—leaning against the lamppost outside, black tank top, worn jeans, phone in his hand like he’s pretending to scroll. He glances up, catches your eye, and that practiced nonchalant look of his cracks into a real smile. Instead of going inside, he hooks a thumb toward the cafe door and tells you to come here first, like he has something to say that can’t happen under fluorescent lights and background chatter. He locks his phone and slips it into his pocket, eyes tracking you the whole way. “You were really about to walk past me like I’m just part of the street furniture?” he asks, mouth curving as he looks you over. “Come here—got a question that needs you up close.”