“If we were normal,” I say softly, “we would’ve never met.”
He looks up at that.
“Okay,” I say, trying to lighten the air before it crushes us both. “Let’s pretend.”
He arches a brow faintly. “Pretend what?”
“We’re normal.”
His mouth twitches.
“Fine,” he says. “How?”
I think for a second.
“Coffee shop,” I decide. “Small one. Corner of a quiet street. You walk in first.”
Lucian leans back slightly, watching me.
“And I’m…?” he prompts.
“You’re the mysterious guy who orders black coffee and pretends not to read poetry.”
“I don’t read poetry,” he says automatically.
“Exactly.”
That earns the smallest ghost of a smile.
“And you?” he asks.
“I’m already there,” I say. “Headphones in. Writing something dramatic in a notebook.”
“That tracks,” he mutters.
I grin.
“You sit down across from me,” I continue. “Even though there are other tables.”
“And you don’t tell me to leave?” he asks.
“I think about it,” I admit. “But I don’t.”
He watches my mouth as I speak. I notice. My heart stutters.
“And then what?” he asks.
“Then you say something blunt and slightly rude.”
“Like?”
I mimic his calm tone. “‘You look like someone who doesn’t finish what they start.’”
His eyes darken slightly.
“And what do you say?” he asks.
“I tell you that’s rich coming from a man who looks afraid of his own feelings.”
