I don’t believe in fate.

Never have.

But that night? Something changed.

I leaned against the wall, sipping from a nearly empty cup of some strange, blended liquor. The music was too loud, the crowd too drunk, and I was too tired to enjoy any of it.

My colleagues had dragged me here, even my boss had subtly suggested I should stay, but I was already regretting it.

My gaze wandered, searching for anything remotely interesting. Nothing. Just the usual—rowdy laughter, slurred conversations, people trying too hard to have fun.

I sighed, downed the last of my drink, and pushed through the mass of bodies toward the exit.

Then, the wine hit me.

Literally.

And it was cold.

I sucked in a sharp breath as the chilled liquid soaked through my shirt, seeping against my skin like an unwelcome slap.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

The girl in front of me looked horrified, eyes wide as she frantically reached out, attempting to dab at the stain with shaky hands.

I stepped back, suppressing a shiver, and held up a hand. “It’s fine.” My voice was flat, my patience nonexistent.

It was not fine.

Without another word, I turned and made my way to the restroom, the wet fabric clinging to my torso like a second skin.

Inside, I splashed cold water onto my face, trying to scrub away both the exhaustion and the deep-set frustration clinging to me. I caught my reflection in the mirror—dark circles under my eyes, a furrow between my brows.

I looked like hell.

Peeling off my stained shirt, I ran it under the faucet, scrubbing at the fabric. The stain wouldn’t budge.

Then, the door creaked open.

I barely glanced up as footsteps approached the sink beside me.

“Wine stains are tricky,” a calm voice remarked. “Try using white vinegar and detergent. Should come off in a few minutes.”

I stilled.

Looking up, I met a pair of brown eyes—small, warm, and utterly captivating.

The guy standing next to me had a smirk that could make even the most cold-hearted person stop and stare.

And I—I stopped.

I had never seen someone so effortlessly beautiful. Maybe it was the alcohol, messing with my perception, or maybe—just maybe—there was something about him. Something I couldn’t name.

The stranger finished washing his hands and turned to leave, but just before stepping through the door, he glanced back at me.

And smiled.

I blinked.

Then, the moment was gone.

I stood there, frozen, my brain struggling to reboot.

Wait.

WAIT.

By the time I snapped out of it, I was already moving—bolting toward the door, ready to scan the crowd, ready to—

Shit.

I wasn’t wearing my shirt.

I looked down at the damp, stained mess still clutched in my hands, now twice as soaked from my failed attempt at washing out the wine.

Panic surged. I scrambled to shove it over my head, but the wet fabric stuck to my skin like it had a personal vendetta against me. One sleeve twisted, the other half-bunched against my chest, the collar refusing to stretch properly.

I fought with it like I was being personally attacked.

By the time I finally managed to yank it down, it was inside out.

I groaned, gave up, and stormed out of the restroom anyway.

Did it look ridiculous? Absolutely.

Did I care? Only slightly.

I scanned the crowd, heart pounding, eyes darting from face to face, but—

He was gone.

I exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down the side of my face.

I had no reason to stay.

So, I called a taxi and went home.

The next morning, I woke up with a dull headache.

I had the day off, but the thought of spending it cooped up in my apartment felt suffocating. I needed to work on my column, but first—coffee.

A friend had recommended a place nearby.

When I arrived, the first thing I noticed was how unassuming it looked. No flashy signs, no overwhelming décor—just a small wooden storefront with a handwritten chalkboard propped outside.

Solstice Café.

The name was written in delicate, looping cursive, with small drawings of stars and a sun peeking over the horizon.

The windows were fogged slightly from the warmth inside, the scent of roasted coffee and vanilla escaping as soon as I pulled the door open.

Cozy. Quiet. Not overly crowded.

Perfect.

I found a seat tucked away from the rest of the customers, pulled out my laptop, and prepared to spend the next few hours writing.

Then—

“Good morning. Welcome to Solstice Café. What can I get for you?”

I looked up.

And my breath caught.

It was him.

The man from last night.

For a long moment, I just stared.

Mind blank.

Throat dry.

“Sir?” His head tilted slightly. “Would you like to order something?”

I clenched my jaw and shook my head quickly, snapping myself out of it. “Sorry, I got distracted.” I cleared my throat. “Just a coffee. Plain.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. “Of course.”

I watched as he walked back to the counter.

He doesn’t remember me.

Of course, he didn’t.

Why would he?

I tried to focus on my work, but my mind refused to cooperate. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving.

Minutes later, he returned, setting the cup in front of me.

“Here you go. Plain coffee. Anything else?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

“Alright. Just raise your hand if you need anything. I’ll be happy to help.”

He smiled before turning back to the counter.

I exhaled slowly, staring down at my coffee, pulse hammering against my ribs.

For the next hour, I barely typed a word.

Instead, I found myself stealing glances at him every few minutes.

There was something about him.

Something I liked.

I just didn’t know what.

Finishing my coffee, I shut down my laptop and reached into my bag, pulling out a small notepad.

Tearing off a sticky note, I scribbled in cursive:

“I felt something the moment I saw you. I’m not sure what it is, but I intend to embrace it nonetheless.”

J

I placed the note on the table, paid for my coffee, and walked out the door.

For the first time in a long time—

I smiled.