The first time she walked in, it was by accident. You saw the flicker of mild confusion cross her face as she glanced around the cozy, dimly lit restaurant. It wasn't flashy, wasn't extravagant, but it had a quiet charm—warm wooden interiors, soft music humming in the background, and the scent of home-cooked meals weaving through the air.

Sofía Vergara was unmistakable, even without the red carpet gowns and flashing cameras. She was elegance wrapped in confidence, beauty laced with mischief. That first night, she hesitated at the entrance, clearly debating whether to leave or stay.

Then she stayed.

You, a man who had spent countless nights in this restaurant, either working behind the scenes or watching from the periphery, had seen all kinds of people come and go. But never her. Never someone who carried an effortless kind of allure, who could command a room with nothing but the lift of an eyebrow.

She took a seat near the window, where the golden streetlights spilled in, catching the amber glow in her hair. The waiter, a bit starstruck, fumbled slightly while taking her order. She smiled, amused but patient.

The second time, she acted as if she had always meant to come back. No hesitation, no uncertainty—just the soft brush of her heels against the floor, the graceful way she draped herself over the chair. She ordered something different but still lingered a little too long over her glass of wine, eyes flicking toward the kitchen.

By the third visit, the staff had started whispering. A celebrity coming once could be brushed off as coincidence. Twice, maybe she just liked the food. But three times? No one believed it was just the menu anymore.

The fourth time, she came in wearing sunglasses, even though it was long past sunset, nudging them down her nose as she playfully scanned the menu like she wasn't already familiar with it.

And now, the fifth time.

It was late, past the usual dinner rush. The restaurant had quieted, save for the occasional murmur of conversations and the clinking of silverware. The dim lighting cast a warm glow on her skin, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones.

You weren't just watching anymore. She knew you were there.

Sofía sighed as she leaned back in her chair, fingers trailing absentmindedly along the rim of her wine glass before lifting it to her lips. Her eyes flickered toward you—not accidental, not a coincidence. She had done this before, but tonight, she didn't look away.

Then, with a slow, knowing smile, she finally said it.

"You know, at this point, you should just sit with me."