I took more photos. A man reading the paper, brow furrowed in concentration. A woman adjusting her scarf, fingers brushing her collarbone. The barista steaming milk, his forearms flexing as he worked the machine.
God.
I shifted in my chair, suddenly too aware of the way the seat pressed against me. Too aware of the fact that last night had ended with my body revved and abandoned, like an engine cut mid-race.
Maybe he wouldn’t come.
The thought landed heavier than it should have.
Maybe I’d misread everything. Maybe dinner had been a one-off. Maybe restraint had been the point, not the promise.
I could have texted him.
I could have called—asked if he was nearby, if he wanted coffee, if last night had meant what it felt like it meant. The option sat in my pocket, warm and easy and entirely too safe.
But there was something unbearably romantic about not doing that.
About sitting here instead, letting the city decide. About seeing whether we were the kind of people who found each other without asking—drawn back to the same place by instinct instead of planning. About believing that if something real had started between us, it wouldn’t need arranging.
I took a slow sip of coffee, forcing myself to breathe.
And then the air changed.
It was subtle—no dramatic hush, no cinematic cue—but my body recognized it instantly. The same pressure shift. The same quiet certainty.
I looked up.
Connor stood just inside the door, sunlight catching the edge of his jaw, his coat open, his posture relaxed. He scanned the room once, sharp and efficient.
Then his gaze found me.
And stopped.
Something passed between us—recognition, relief, heat. His shoulders loosened by a fraction, like he’d been braced for something and just realized he didn’t have to be.
He walked toward me.
I didn’t pretend not to watch.
Every step felt like a decision. Controlled, unhurried, the kind of movement that suggested he knew exactly how much space he was taking up. When he stopped at my table, the scent of him—clean, dark, familiar—hit me all over again.
“Morning,” he said.
“Is it?” I replied, my voice lower than usual. Rougher.
His mouth curved slightly. “You look like you’ve already lived through one.”
I smiled, slow and unapologetic. “I woke up awake.”
His eyes darkened. Just a shade. Enough that my pulse spiked.
My gaze dropped—deliberately this time.
To his mouth.
Normally, I would’ve caught myself and looked away, embarrassed by the intimacy of it. By how revealing it felt to linger there, to notice the shape of his lips, the faint shadow at the corner. Normally, I would’ve swallowed the thought before it finished forming.
But I didn’t look away.
