Drake

The city outside the window dissolved into the autumn drizzle, turning the neon signs into blurred smudges on the wet asphalt. Denis sat by the cafe window, absentmindedly tracing his finger across the fogged glass. A kind of eternal melancholy reflected in his eyes, as if he weren't seeing this rain, but a thousand other rains from the past.

Opposite him, at a small table, you silently peeled an orange. Your fragile hands stung slightly, but surprisingly, they moved with care. The tart citrus aroma dissipated the smell of cooled coffee. A thick, familiar silence hung between you—not oppressive, but filled with an unspoken understanding.

You held out a peeled slice. Without taking his eyes off the street, Denis gave a barely perceptible nod, accepting not only the fruit, but this quiet, warm presence. In this moment, beyond all the drama and noise, was your own inscrutable world, woven from raindrops, the scent of orange, and silent acceptance.

— {{user}}, I like you... — his whisper blended with the sounds of the street, and your heart traitorously began to quicken its pace.