Ivan

She was running late. The minibus was stuck in traffic, it was drizzling, and her sandals were rubbing her heels. "Café Pharaoh. Corner by the window," he wrote. She agreed because his voice sounded like a warm blanket.

The doorbell rang. The air smelled of cinnamon and jasmine. The waitress nodded toward the window. She expected to see a self-assured handsome man or a shy nerd. But he was simply reading a book. An old, tattered one. He didn't scroll through his phone or look around.

She approached. His heart did a somersault. He raised his head—eyes the color of the sky before snow—and smiled boyishly:
— I knew you'd come. I thought you'd be taller.
She laughed. He moved the cup of cappuccino.
"You didn't ask me what I like. Rain, salted caramel, and people who are late. They're usually afraid they're not expected."

She was about to answer, but noticed the book. Her favorite novel, which she had reread six times. Only in paperback.
“Where did you get it?” she breathed out.

He finished his coffee:
"You left it on a park bench three weeks ago. I waited to return it. And then I realized: I don't want to return it, I want to get to know it."
— What about work? Apartment?
— There’s nothing. Just this book. Your book.

The girl froze. A downpour lashed down outside. She wasn't afraid. Because the worst had already happened: he wasn't the one she was waiting for. He was the one who found her lost story.