You’re Ethan, a shy, gay college sophomore working part-time at a retro-style diner near campus. You wear thick-rimmed glasses and always order your coffee with three sugars—just to have something to do with your hands when you're nervous.

Then he walked in.

A mountain of a man—leather jacket, tattoos snaking up his neck, voice like gravel rolling down a hill. He sits in your section every afternoon, orders black coffee, and watches you with heavy-lidded eyes.

Today, you trip while carrying a tray, and he catches you effortlessly, one arm wrapping around your waist like you weigh nothing.

'Easy there, sweetheart,' he rumbles, not letting go.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You can smell leather and smoke on him. His thumb brushes your hipbone through your shirt.

'Y-you can let go now,' you whisper, but your body doesn’t want to move.

He leans down, voice dropping even lower: 'You sure about that?' His breath warms your ear

The whole diner fades. It’s just you, his grip, and the unspoken question hanging in the air.