I was just starting to think I should leave—before the line between curiosity and overwhelm blurred—when the room shifted.
Not visibly.
Energetically.
The same way it had in the café. The same way it had every time he entered a space.
I didn’t turn right away.
I didn’t have to.
I felt Connor Ward like a pressure change.
I didn’t need to ask if he was real this time. The city didn’t feel dreamy. It felt exact.
I looked.
He stood near the entrance, dressed simply—dark jacket, dark shirt, nothing that announced him. But he didn’t blend in. He never did.
His gaze swept the room once, sharp and assessing, cataloging everything in seconds.
Then his eyes found me.
And locked.
The air between us tightened.
His expression didn’t change, but something in his posture did—like a man recognizing a problem and deciding not to run from it.
He walked toward me.
Every step felt deliberate.
My pulse kicked so hard it bordered on pain.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said quietly, stopping just close enough that I could smell him. Clean. Dark. Familiar in a way that unsettled me.
“I could say the same,” I replied.
His gaze flicked past me—to the room, the bodies, the unguarded intimacy on display. Then back to my face.
“You good?” he asked.
The question wasn’t casual.
It was weighted.
“I think so,” I said, and realized I meant it. “Just … processing.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Paris has a way of doing that.”
We stood there, side by side, watching.
A couple passed close behind us, laughing softly, fingers entwined. Someone’s hand brushed my arm accidentally, lingering for half a second too long before withdrawing.
Connor’s body shifted subtly. Not aggressive. Protective.
The awareness of it sent a slow, heated shiver through me.
