The first thing I noticed wasn't his face it was the silence.
For a Friday night, the café was unusually empty, the kind of quiet that made the hum of the espresso machine sound louder than usual. I was tucked in my favorite corner, nursing a caramel latte and pretending to read my literature homework, though in reality I was replaying the video clip of him.
Adrian Knight.
Eighteen years old.
International pop sensation.
Every girl's lock screen. Every headline's obsession.
And, apparently, every reason my brain had forgotten how to focus on Shakespeare.
I watched the clip on my phone for the tenth time him on stage, hair damp with sweat, flashing that dangerous half-smile before he leaned into the mic. My best friend Maya called me "pathetic," but she didn't understand. Adrian Knight wasn't just famous. He was everywhere. His songs poured out of radios, his face plastered billboards, his interviews flooded TikTok. He was the kind of boy who lived galaxies away from girls like me.
Except… in that moment, I swear the universe was laughing at me.
Because when the bell above the café door chimed, and I looked up, a boy in a dark hoodie slipped inside. Head down. Hands shoved into his pockets. He moved with a kind of practiced invisibility, like he'd spent years perfecting the art of being unnoticed.
Still, there was something magnetic about him.
He ordered in a low voice, just loud enough for me to catch the rough edge of an American accent. Then he scanned the room, and for one dizzying heartbeat, his gaze collided with mine.
My stomach flipped.
He didn't look away.
I blinked, heat rising to my cheeks, before ducking back to my book like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. My heart pounded so hard it drowned out the café music.
Don't be stupid, I told myself. Not every boy in a hoodie is a global superstar.
But when the barista called, "Order for Adrian," my blood froze.
Adrian.
Not possible.
I stole another glance. His hood had slipped back just enough to reveal the unmistakable jawline I'd memorized from posters. The same tousled hair that made girls on the internet write essays about his "effortless perfection."
Oh. My. God.
It was him.
Adrian Knight was standing three tables away from me, alive, breathing, very much real and buying coffee like a normal human being.
Every cell in my body screamed to move, to do something. Say hi. Ask for a picture. Call Maya and scream. But my legs felt cemented to the chair. My voice had staged a rebellion and locked itself somewhere in my throat.
Adrian slid into a booth at the back, pulling his hood lower. His coffee steamed between his hands, and he stared out the window as if the rain streaking the glass held the answers to life itself.
I should've left it there. Normal girls don't stalk celebrities in cafés. But apparently, I wasn't normal anymore. Because ten minutes later, I found myself walking toward him, my pulse thundering in my ears.
"Um… hi."
Adrian's head snapped up. Up close, he was even more unfairly beautiful, with eyes the color of storm clouds and an expression that screamed Don't blow my cover.
"Hey," he said cautiously, voice low.
"I..uh...I just wanted to say… I love your music," I stammered. "Not in, like, a crazy fangirl way. Well, maybe a little. But not the scary kind of crazy. The normal kind. You know?"
Adrian's lips curved into the tiniest smirk, like he was fighting a laugh. "That's… good to know."
Silence stretched between us, awkward and heavy.
I fiddled with my sleeve. "So, um… what are you doing here? In our boring little town?"
He tilted his head, studying me like he was deciding whether to trust me. Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice even more. "I'm hiding."
I blinked. "From what?"
"Not what." His eyes flicked toward the window, the street outside. "Who."
Before I could process, the café door burst open. Two men in black coats scanned the room, eyes sharp, movements quick. My stomach knotted. They weren't just customers.
Adrian's jaw tightened. He pushed his hood up again and stood so fast I nearly spilled my latte.
"Don't tell anyone you saw me," he whispered, brushing past me.
And just like that, Adrian Knight the boy every girl in the world dreamed about was gone.
But not before slipping a folded piece of paper into my hand.
My fingers trembled as I opened it. Just one line, scribbled in rushed handwriting:
"Meet me tomorrow. Same place. Don't be late."