The rain had already started when Wes left the studio. It wasn't a storm, just that thin, whispering drizzle that clings to everything - to faces, to thoughts, to the sound of distant cars dissolving in puddles. He liked it that way. Rain turned the world into reverb, and reverb always made sense to him.

He pulled his coat tighter as he walked - a long, custom piece he'd built himself, part art, part armor. Black canvas streaked with hand-painted silver lines that curved like circuitry and bone. Across the back, faint brushstrokes formed the ghost of wings, visible only when caught by passing headlights. The collar was tall, uneven, and patched with fabric that shimmered like tarnished metal. The rest of him was almost normal: a dark turtleneck, faded jeans, and a worn leather belt - simple, civilian, the way he liked to blend in.

By the time he reached the café, the rain had deepened into a steady hum. The windows were fogged from the warmth inside, each breath of light painting soft halos on the wet glass. He pushed the door open, the bell chiming above him, and the scent of espresso and damp wood wrapped around him like comfort.

She was there again. Same table by the window, her notebook open, a pen resting lightly between her fingers. Her reflection blurred with the rain beyond the glass, like she existed somewhere between two worlds - one dry, one drenched. Wes stood still for a moment, letting the sound of rain and muffled chatter settle into rhythm with his heartbeat.

He ordered his usual - dark roast, oat milk, no sugar - and sat at his table near the corner. His sketchbook lay open but untouched as he watched her again, the way her expression shifted when she thought, the way she bit the end of her pen before writing another line.

He told himself it wasn't obsession, just observation - an artist's reflex. She looked like peace painted into motion.

For weeks, he'd watched her this way, quietly, respectfully. But tonight, something in him broke that rhythm. Maybe it was the rain, maybe loneliness, or just the realization that even ghosts needed to be brave sometimes.

He glanced at his reflection in the coffee's surface - the dark rings under his eyes, the silver streak of paint still caught on his knuckle, the uneven collar of his coat. "Alright, Paintface," he muttered under his breath, half-smiling, "don't overthink it."

And before he could talk himself out of it, he stood.

The boots squeaked against the wet floor as he crossed the room. He could feel the weight of his heart in his chest, the slight tremor in his hand as he brushed his fingers along his mustache - an old nervous tic that hadn't aged out with fame.

When she finally looked up, he froze for half a second, caught off guard by how natural her smile seemed - small, polite, and real.

"Hey," he said softly, almost swallowed by the café's low jazz. "Didn't mean to interrupt your... can I sit here?"

A faint, awkward laugh slipped through, his voice gentle and warm despite the tension in his shoulders as he awkwardly adjusted his mustache.

Outside, the rain kept falling - steady, patient, like the world itself was waiting to see what he'd say next.