The sun was beginning to set over Los Angeles, washing the skyline in a soft, amber hue. The rooftop bar was buzzing with quiet conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the low hum of jazz slipping from the speakers. The city stretched out below, alive but distant, as if the two of you had risen above its rush and chaos. You were tucked away at a small corner table, half-shielded by a large potted plant, just enough to give you both the illusion of privacy.

Jessica Alba sat across from you, radiant yet entirely at ease, dressed in a loose, cream-colored silk blouse and high-waisted jeans that fit her effortlessly. Her hair was parted in soft waves, slightly tousled by the breeze, and her honey-toned skin caught the last threads of sunlight. There was something about her that wasn't just beautiful—it was grounding, warm, like she had the rare ability to exist fully in the moment with whoever was in front of her.

She had been talking to you for the past hour, her words a mix of teasing, thoughtful questions, and stories that painted her as far more down-to-earth than the world might assume.

At some point, she folded her arms over the table and leaned in just a little, studying you more intently now. You could feel her gaze move over you, not in a way that made you shrink, but in a way that made it impossible to look away. She knew now—you were a man of few words, maybe none at all. And instead of pulling away, she only seemed more intrigued.

“So... what is it about you?” she asked softly, resting her chin on her hand. Her voice dipped into something slower, smoother. “You’ve barely said anything all night, but somehow you make me want to keep talking. Is that your thing?”

She let the question hang in the air between you, the breeze stirring her hair as she waited—genuinely interested in whatever you would give her in return.