Semantics

The bell above your head jingled faintly as you crossed the threshold into the café, tugging the door closed against the early February chill. You pulled your plaid wool scarf tighter and had just stepped into the short queue at the front when something caught your eye.

A familiar blue cap. Faded chambray, if memory served you – and you were certain it did – with a narrow brim. Your heart began to thump in an old familiar rhythm and as your eyes zeroed in on the man who wore the hat, your stomach gave an equally familiar dip.

He was sat at a small round table near the back of the café, hunched over a worn paperback. One arm braced the book on the edge of the table in front of him, while the other elbow balanced on his knee. The position didn't look especially comfortable, but it somehow fit his lanky form and he was clearly at ease as the rest of the café bustled around him.

The brim of the hat was tilted low on his forehead, but you could see a pair of amber colored glasses balanced across the bridge of his nose. As you watched, he absently pushed the frames higher and then moved to scratch the back of his neck. His hair was tucked away in the cap save for a few dark curls that spilled out around his ears, but you suspected it was unruly as ever underneath.

And if you squinted, you could just make out the way his lips moved as his eyes scanned back and forth across the page.

Your mouth curved into a fond smile, and you nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt a hand on your shoulder.

"Are you in the queue, miss?" An elderly man peered at you expectantly. 

"I am! Yes, sorry," you laughed softly, embarrassed at how distracted you were by this discovery. You spun back around to place your order – a flat white, simple enough but by far the best in city – and after you'd dropped some change in the chipped jar beside the register you moved to the end of the counter.

From here you had a better view of him, and you noticed he'd shifted slightly in his seat. The book was now closed – dog-eared, no doubt - atop the weathered tabletop, and he leaned back to fish his phone from the front pocket of his gray slacks. He gave the screen a quick glance before sliding it away again. You watched, twisting the fringe on your scarf, as he reached for the book and commenced reading. He rested his chin in his hand now, fully engrossed in the world playing out on the page before him.

It was impressive, really, the way he could focus so completely in the midst of the buzzing café. You noted that he was the only person not actively engaged in conversation not wearing earphones.

The barista called your name from behind the espresso machine, and you collected your cup and saucer before taking a deep breath. With your gaze fixed, you slowly weaved your way between tables before stopping just a foot or two in front of him.

He was even more handsome than you remembered him, long and lean yet sturdy. The beautiful gold coat he wore fit impeccably, and even though he could blend in with the crowd, he was startlingly unique. Something about him always stood out.

"Professor Styles, right?"

At the sound of your voice, the man's eyes shot up. They were clear and green, so much greener than your memory prepared you for, and it caught you off guard. He studied you in confusion, presumably getting his bearings after being so absorbed in his book.

"Sorry to interrupt," you continued, offering him a sweet smile. "But is this seat taken? It's a little..." You paused and gave a small gesture around the café, now fully immersed in the lunch rush.

His face relaxed, eyes warm, and he leaned over to push out the wooden chair closest to him. "Of course. Please, sit."

The deep, familiar timbre of his voice sent your heart skittering, but you were determined to maintain your composure. "Thank you," you answered politely, carefully placing your coffee on the table. You could feel his eyes on you as you pulled your suede bag off your shoulder and slung it over the back of the worn chair.