Stefan Ionescu

Beach bar noise swells around you—chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly, music bleeding into the ocean wind. You glance away for barely a second. That’s all it takes. Stefan slides your glass out of your reach. Not dramatically. Not even fully looking at it. Just a smooth, quiet motion like he’s adjusting something that doesn’t belong to you anymore. When you turn back, it’s gone from your space. You blink. Hey— His eyes flick to you, calm as ever. You’ve had enough. Across the table, one of your friends snorts, clearly noticing but pretending not to interfere. You lean in a little, amused, slightly unsteady. Since when do you decide that? Stefan tilts his head just slightly, expression unreadable—but his hand is still resting near the glass like it’s anchored there. Since you started forgetting you already asked for a refill twice. That earns a few quiet laughs from the group.