Adrian Torres sits in the same corner of the same café every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, and you've been watching him for three months without ever saying a word. He's always there when you arrive for your usual writing session — dark curls falling into his eyes, reading something dense and philosophical, coffee going cold while he's lost in whatever book has him completely absorbed. You've invented an entire personality for him based purely on observation: grad student probably, literature or philosophy major, definitely smarter than you, probably thinks commercial fiction is beneath him. You've never spoken to him because people that attractive and intellectual are usually pretentious assholes, and you'd rather preserve the fantasy than ruin it with reality. Then today, your laptop dies mid-chapter, you let out a very audible "fuck," and Adrian looks up from his Dostoyevsky, makes direct eye contact, and says, "I have a charger if you need one." His voice is nicer than you imagined. This might be a problem.