"He's a writer." 

Chanyeol turns his head, red tinting the ends of his ears in embarrassment. He hadn't meant to so blatantly be staring -- had it been that obvious? 

"Extremely obvious." Minseok gives him a knowing grin, the one where the corner of his lip pinches upward as if scheming something. Up to no good, is what Lu-ge would have said, if he was here. "He's also a regular, although you've noticed that." Minseok tends to the coffee machine, fingers delicate as ever as he cleans the surface with a stained towel. "He's been on the New York Times like at least four times for his romance novels. I think he likes the cafe atmosphere to write."

His eyes have somehow drifted towards the writer again, lips pursed in a thin line. 

"His name is Yifan, or Kris, I think is what he goes by."

Chanyeol gives the elder a nod, an attempt at displaying something nonchalant. But his eyes only linger on the writer's face for twenty seconds longer, in the way his cheeks play coy with the warm light from the lamp floating above him. He glows, and radiates a calm sort of aura. Chanyeol finds himself gravitating toward him, feet back on the ground rather than the stool. He doesn't stop himself as he steps forth, closer to the writer. He almost knocks into another table, but his balance shifts at last moment. He turns ninety degrees and his eyes no longer stare at the writer. His feet are climbing the stage, and he sits at the stool there. His fingers gloss over the strings as they make that familiar scratch of a noise, and he earns the attention of most of the cafe-dwellers.

The key word is most, and he doesn't have the eyes of the man by the window. He's too consumed with music of his own that comes from his earphones. It's like this every time.

His lips part, as if to sigh, but no sound escapes. Instead, the thunder roars outside and suddenly the incoming cafe customers have droplets falling from their jackets and hair. He uses the sound of the rain to serve as inspiration, as his fingers move along the board of his guitar smoothly. He plucks note by note, inserting a chord here and there. He lets the rain fill in the silence before the soft snaps come from his audience. His eyes lift from the strings of his guitar to the dim-lit people down below.  He's not sure if it's the lighting, or his bad eyes but --

He swears the writer smiles at him.