Nanachi?

Three months ago, Javier Peña accidentally stole your table. It wasn't exactly his finest moment.

He walked into the little café a few blocks from the U.S. Embassy looking like he'd been awake for three straight days. His tie hung loose around his neck, his sleeves were rolled unevenly, and the stack of DEA files tucked beneath one arm looked heavy enough to ruin anyone's afternoon.

Without so much as a glance around the room, he dropped everything onto the first empty table he found. Coffee. Files. Newspaper. Then he sat down. What he never noticed was the small handwritten card tucked into the sugar holder:

Reserved

Not officially. Just for you. Everyone in the café knew that table belonged to you.

Carlos, the waiter, looked up from the espresso machine, spotted Javier sitting there, then looked toward the front door. He knew exactly who would be walking in within the next few minutes. A grin tugged at his lips. He decided to let fate handle this one.

You arrived less than a minute later, backpack hanging from one shoulder, already pulling your book from the front pocket. You smiled at Carlos.

Carlos smiled back.

Then you turned toward your usual table. Your smile disappeared.

Some stranger had claimed it.

You stopped beside the chair and waited.

Surely he'd notice someone standing there. But he didn't. He calmly turned another page of his newspaper.

You cleared your throat.

Nothing.

"Uh... excuse me?"

Not even a glance.

You waited another couple of seconds before finally reaching across the table and lowering the newspaper just enough for him to actually see you.

He looked up slowly. His expression wasn't irritated. It was simply the face of a man whose patience had been exhausted hours ago. "Yeah?"

"I think you're sitting at my table."

He blinked once before glancing around the café, as if the answer might be sitting somewhere else. "There are plenty of empty tables."

"There are," you agreed easily. "I'm not saying there aren't."

When he looked back at you, there was a faint crease between his brows. "So why this one?"

You rested a hand on the back of the chair opposite him, still making no move to sit. "Because this is where I always sit."

He glanced around the café again. A couple of people looked over for a second before returning to their own conversations. Nobody stepped in. Nobody confirmed what you were saying.

Eventually, his attention returned to you. "You don't have an assigned seat."

"No..."

"Then I don't see the problem."

You smiled, patient enough that it almost seemed to confuse him. "The problem isn't that there are no other tables. The problem is that you're sitting at the one I come to every afternoon."

He studied you for another moment, clearly waiting for you to give up and pick one of the other empty tables. "You really gonna make a thing out of this?"

You smiled. "I don't think I am."

"No?"

"No." You rested your hand on the back of the chair. "I'd just like my table back."

He looked around the café again before meeting your eyes. "You keep calling it your table."

"I do."

"But it isn't."

"Officially?" You gave a small shrug. "No."

His expression didn't change. "So why are you acting like it is?"

"Because everyone here knows it's mine."

He let out a quiet breath through his nose. "Funny. Nobody mentioned that."

"I thought the reservation sign might."

"What reservation sign?"

"The one you're covering."

He frowned immediately, following your gaze to the tabletop. "I didn't see one."

"You couldn't." You leaned forward, slid one of the thick folders a few inches aside, and revealed the small handwritten card hidden beneath it. "There."

For a second, he simply stared at it. Then he looked back at you. "Well..."

"You buried it."

"I guess I did." For the first time since you'd walked over, he looked lowkey embarrassed. Not enough to admit it out loud. Just enough that you noticed. After a brief silence, he looked back up at you. "You could've just said something."

A quiet laugh slipped out before you could stop it. "Hello? I've been standing here saying something for a couple of minutes."

Before either of you could continue, Carlos finally abandoned his role as an innocent bystander. "She's right, señor."

You both turned toward the counter.

Carlos was grinning without the slightest attempt to hide it. "That's been her table for months. We don't even ask where she wants to sit anymore."

Javier slowly closed his eyes. "Of course." He let out a tired sigh before gathering the files back into a stack, folding the newspaper under one arm and reaching for his coffee. As he stood, he shot Carlos a look. "You could've warned me."

Carlos shrugged. "I would've missed the entertainment."

Javier muttered something under his breath as he carried everything to the neighboring table.

Only after he'd settled down did you pull your chair out and sit. "Thank you."

He unfolded the newspaper again before answering. "I wasn't trying to be nice."

"I know."

He lowered the paper just enough to look at you. "So you don't have to sound so pleased about it."

"I'll try."

He gave a quiet shake of his head before disappearing behind the newspaper again.

The café gradually slipped back into its normal rhythm.

You opened your book. A page. Then another. Barely half a minute passed before you glanced sideways again. "You know..."

This time the newspaper lowered only an inch. "What now?"

"You picked the worst table in the café."

He sighed. "Why?"

You nodded toward the window. "The sun."

He followed your gaze. "It looks fine."

"It does."

His eyes returned to yours. "So what's the problem?"

"It won't stay there."

He frowned. "What do you mean?"

"In another ten minutes it's going to be shining straight into your eyes."

He glanced back toward the window as if checking whether you might somehow be wrong. "I'll survive."

"I'm sure you will." You looked back down at your book. "I just figured I'd warn you before you spent the afternoon squinting at your paperwork."

He watched you quietly for a moment. "You always this helpful?"

You smiled without looking up. "Only after people steal my table."

For a second he simply looked at you. Then, despite every visible effort not to… the corner of his mouth almost gave in. Not quite a smile. More like his face had considered it for half a second before deciding he wasn't in the mood. Then he unfolded his newspaper again.

Neither of you spoke for the rest of the afternoon.

–––

The next afternoon, Javier came back. This time, he walked straight past your table and sat down in the chair beside it like he'd already made up his mind.

The afternoon after that, he did the same thing.

A few days later, you got there first. Without really thinking about it, you left the chair next to you empty, you didn’t block it with your backpack.

When Javier walked in, he spotted it immediately. He didn't wave. He didn't ask if anyone was sitting there. He just walked over and sat down.

A few days later, he beat you to the café. When you walked in, your chair was empty. It was as if he’d been making sure no one took it for you. You smiled to yourself, set your bag on the floor, and sat down as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Neither of you ever mentioned it. You never thanked him for saving your seat. He never admitted he'd been doing it. Somewhere along the way, it had just become part of the routine. And neither of you saw any reason to question it.

–––

Three months later, the routine had become so normal neither of you questioned it anymore.

Most afternoons, Javier was already there by the time you arrived. Sometimes he was buried beneath paperwork. Sometimes he looked like he'd slept. Most days he hadn't.

You'd bring your book. He'd bring another impossible stack of DEA files. Carlos would place two coffees on the table without asking because, at some point, he'd simply decided Javier drank the same thing every day.

Neither of you remembered when the conversations had started. One day you'd commented on the terrible music playing through the café speakers. Another day he'd complained about embassy paperwork. Somewhere between those conversations, silence had stopped being awkward. It had become comfortable.

–––

"You know," you said one afternoon, closing your book halfway, "I still think it's funny."

Javier didn't look up immediately. His attention lingered on the report in front of him for another few seconds before he finally lowered it just enough to meet your eyes. "What?"

"The first thing you ever said to me."

A faint crease appeared between his brows. "I've said a lot of things."

You smiled. "'There are plenty of empty tables.'"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I was right."

"You were so annoyed."

"I still am."

"I noticed."

He studied you for a moment over the edge of the file before giving a quiet shake of his head. "And yet..." he said, "you keep coming back."

You couldn't help smiling. "So do you."

For a second, neither of you said anything. Javier held your gaze just long enough to admit defeat. "Fair enough."

Carlos chose that exact moment to appear beside the table, coffee pot already in hand. "Your usual?"

Both of you nodded without a word.

Only after Carlos wandered back toward the counter did Javier lean back in his chair again. His eyes drifted to the novel resting beside your coffee. "You always have that book with you."

You looked down at it before looking back at him. "It isn't the same book."

"It all looks the same."

You stared at him in exaggerated disbelief before placing a hand over your chest. "That," you declared, "might be the most offensive thing you've ever said."

One of his eyebrows lifted. "I called you territorial over a table."

"And somehow this is worse."

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it. It was barely there. Short enough that someone sitting across the café probably wouldn't have noticed it.

You did. Your eyes lifted from your coffee almost immediately. "What was that?"

Javier looked back at the report in front of him as though nothing unusual had happened. He reached for his coffee instead, taking an unhurried sip before finally answering. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You laughed."

"I did not."

You watched him for another second, waiting for even the smallest crack in his expression. "You absolutely did."

He lowered the cup again. "I breathed."

That only made you smile wider. "No," you said, leaning back in your chair. "That was definitely a laugh."

"I think you're imagining things."

You tipped your head toward the counter where Carlos was wiping down the espresso machine. "I have a witness."

Javier glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at you. "Carlos doesn't count."

"He absolutely counts."

He let out a quiet sigh, more resigned than annoyed, before shaking his head. "I liked you better when you only argued about furniture."

You looked at him over the rim of your coffee. "I still argue about furniture."

"Now you argue about everything."

"I'm keeping things interesting."

For a long moment, Javier said nothing. He simply studied you with the same thoughtful expression he usually reserved for reports he didn't trust. Finally, he gave the smallest nod. "That's debatable..."

You laughed quietly into your coffee. "You're in a better mood today."

"I'm really not."

"No?" You tilted your head. "You've smiled twice."

His eyes narrowed just a little. "I regret both."

You took another sip of your coffee before looking back at him. "Good."

Another quiet silence settled between you. Outside, traffic rolled past the café windows. Inside, cups clinked against saucers while someone argued softly in Spanish near the counter.

Javier rubbed a tired hand over his face, then let it rest against his jaw for a moment as he stared down at the paperwork scattered across the table.

"Tough day?"

He didn't answer straight away. His eyes stayed on the report in front of him, though it was obvious he wasn't reading anymore. Eventually, he exhaled through his nose. "The usual."

You gave a small nod. "You don't have to tell me."

"I know."

The conversation drifted back into a comfortable silence. You reached for your coffee while Javier absentmindedly straightened the stack of papers he'd barely touched all afternoon.

After a while, without looking up, he spoke again. "You coming tomorrow?"

Your eyes lifted from your cup. It was such an ordinary question that it almost slipped past you. Casual. Offhand. As if he hadn't given it a second thought. Except three months ago, he wouldn't have asked at all. "I usually do."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back down at the table. "Yeah," he murmured. "I know."

Before either of you could say anything else, Carlos returned with fresh refills. He placed one in front of Javier, the other in front of you, then glanced between the two of you with a knowing smile. "See you both tomorrow."

Neither of you commented on it. Carlos disappeared again, leaving the two of you alone with the quiet that had become so familiar.

You wrapped your hands around the warm mug for a moment before looking back at Javier. "So… same time tomorrow?"

Instead of answering immediately, he took another sip of his coffee. His eyes stayed on you over the rim of the cup for a second before he finally set it down. "There better not be anyone sitting at my table."

You couldn't help raising an eyebrow. "Your table?"

He didn't look the slightest bit embarrassed. "You heard me."

A quiet laugh escaped you. "You really stole my table."

For a moment, Javier simply watched you. Then, before either of you had time to think about it, the words left his mouth. "And somehow you still ended up stealing me..."

Silence settled over the table. He froze almost immediately.

You stared at him. For the first time since you'd met him, Javier Peña looked like a man who genuinely wished he could take his own words back.

"I meant..." He cleared his throat, suddenly finding his coffee far more interesting than your face. "My afternoons."

You let him sit with that explanation for a second before a smile slowly spread across your face. "Sure you did."

"I did."

"Mhm."

He gave a quiet shake of his head, muttering something under his breath as he reached for his coffee again. Whatever he'd said disappeared into the rim of the cup before you could make it out.

You decided not to push him any further. Instead, you hid your smile behind your own coffee.

Neither of you mentioned it again.

But when you walked into the café the following afternoon, the chair beside his was still empty. Waiting for you, just like it always was.

Thank you so much for reading ♡

💌 @idknananchimaybe @pascalispunktexas @mothmanuwu @pascalispunkbr @reasonablyluminousquill @justmasblack @indiegirlunited @saralovesjoelmiller @picketniffler @canonisoptional @katyispunk @daltoncharm @kirsteng42 @borinquenasoy @cuteanimalmama @negramurguera @senoratess @misstokyo7love @suestormnotcheatingversion @lizette50 @grxnde-dwt @harriedandharassed @somedayheaven @ladyofmidlo72 @bardot49 @scarlettval2 @goonersquad101 @loveoverpride @fckyeahsaltandpeppercurls @javierarchieve @shadowqueen2024 @ningaispunk

I was high key in the point of mass hysteria when I heard a roar erupt from the stage next to us, where the general panel (not the q&a panel where I was waiting) started and something inside me collapsed. I knew instantly it was him. My body went light. I got dizzy. I wanted to cry. All I could think was: in half an hour, I’m going to see Pedro Pascal with my own eyes.

Nothing prepares you for that moment. Again it was very similar but at the same time different from when I met Oscar. Similar in the sense of traveling to the city and getting nervous, tho with Oscar I almost passed out after meeting him, and it was also very intense.

I’ve loved Pedro Pascal since the Game of Thrones days. Through every era, every role, every interview, every phase of life, I’ve been there, got my own tattoos related to his characters or something of himself. I mostly stay on the margins of the fandom these days; quietly making my little chibis, loving him from afar, keeping him as one of my comfort people and away from all the toxicity there is sometimes around, cause he is after all the kind of person whose presence, even through a screen, has brought warmth to my life on hard days.

Anyways when he walked out, smiling like the human sun that he is, wearing that green Mexican football jersey, being everybody’s tío proudly taking pictures of the people at the crowd. I swear time bent in on itself. He sat right in front of me for around twenty-five minutes and it felt like one second. I blacked out half of it, don’t even ask me what he talked about, cause I have to rewatch that panel cause I ain’t got the faintest idea of what happened. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely function. I was warm, nervous, trembling like crazy, trying to stay present while my brain was short-circuiting.

But when I saw his thumb tattoo? That shit was crazy.

The same tattoo I have on my wrist, matching with my best friends. That almost broke me. I had to fight back tears right there in the crowd. Something about seeing that tiny familiar mark on him, in real life, after carrying my own version of it for so long… it felt too personal, too surreal, too full-circle to explain.

He noticed my drawing too. Pedro made direct eye contact because of my art. I was waving it up in the air and he did a grabby hand motion. Even typing that feels fake. He saw something I made with my own hands. A man who has inspired so much creativity and comfort in me looked back at me because of something I created.

Im again with this question: How do you move on from that?

And the craziest part is that I thought nothing could top my Saturday. I had already lived so many unreal moments at CCXP — seeing the cast of Spider-Man Noir, seeing Paul Wesley, seeing Matt Smith (which is its own insane story for another day). I thought the convention had already given me everything it could possibly give.

Then Mr. Pascal showed up.

And now I’m left with that same strange feeling I had after meeting Oscar Isaac — like it happened to somebody else. Like I’m a fraud retelling someone else’s memory. Like my mind refuses to accept that these things happen to me.

But they did.

I was there. I saw him laugh. I saw the curls up close. I saw the tattoo. He saw my drawing.

And most of all, I saw Pedro being exactly who everyone says he is: warm, playful, speaking Spanish as if google translate was talking in his ear, which was so endearing...

Nothing compares to that.

I think I’ll be processing this for the rest of my life. How was I able to see my two viejos in the span of 6 months after being a fan for over 10 years of both of them? Truly insanity.