I shook my head, laughing. “You haven’t changed.”
“You have,” he said quietly.
The words landed with more weight than I expected. “Is that a good thing?”
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze steady, thoughtful. “Yeah. It is.”
My chest tightened. I looked away, suddenly shy, and focused on the table instead. On the crumbs from a croissant. On anything that wasn’t the awareness building between us.
“Wyatt,” I said, softer now, “what are you doing here? Really.”
He hesitated just long enough to tell me there was more to the answer than he was giving. “Work brought me through. I had some time.”
“That’s all?”
“For now,” he said. “I’m not very good at planning my life more than a few days out.”
I smiled faintly. “That tracks.”
Silence settled again—but this time it wasn’t awkward. It was charged. The kind that hummed beneath the surface, inviting something reckless.
I imagined him later—cowboy hat pulled low, boots heavy against the floor, hands at my hips guiding me through a turn. The image slid into my mind uninvited and stayed there, vivid enough to make my pulse quicken.
I shifted in my chair, suddenly hyper-aware of my body. Of how close he was. Of how easy it would be to lean forward and close the space between us.
It’s just coffee, I reminded myself.Slow down.
But my body didn’t seem interested in logic.
“Hey,” he said gently, like he sensed the shift. “You okay?”
I met his eyes. “Yeah. Just … thinking.”
He smiled at that, something knowing in it. Like maybe he was thinking about the same things I was and choosing—very deliberately—not to say them out loud yet.
We paid and stepped outside into the late-morning sunshine. Charleston felt alive in that easy, unhurried way—palms swaying, heat settling into my skin, the city breathing around us.
“I should let you get back to your friends,” he said. “Before they stage a rescue.”
“They won’t,” I said.
He nodded, then hesitated. “So … tonight?”
“Tonight,” I confirmed. “Texas Night. Dancing.”
He smiled slowly. “I’ll find boots.”
“And a hat,” I added.
“Obviously.”
We stood there for a beat too long. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—clean, warm, something faintly familiar that stirred memories and something newer, darker.
For a second, I thought he might kiss me.
Instead, he leaned in just enough to murmur, “I’m really glad I ran into you, Soph.”
My heart thudded. “Me, too.”
