I don’t overthink it or edit, I just let myself draw. And slowly I stop replaying the conversation with Anne in my head. The bitterness of it fades into the background, replaced by the comforting scratch of pencil against paper and the quiet rhythm of waves below.
I pause only to sip my wine. It’s crisp and bright, and the glass is already starting to sweat in the heat. When I glance up to rest my eyes, I spot him.
Sitting at the far corner of the bar, half in shadow, half caught in the golden spill of the sunset. He’s reading a menu but glances up at the same time I do, and for a second, our eyes lock. I look away quickly, instinctively—but then look back.
He’s still looking. And smiling.
Normally, this is the part where I go full ice queen. Head down, shoulders hunched, book or sketchbook angled like a shield. Most men don’t take the hint. It’s exhausting.
But this time… I don’t know. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s the strange, aching relief of finallyfeelingsomething after weeks of emotional numbness. Maybe it’s the way he’s not moving, not waving, not interrupting—just watching with quiet curiosity.
I surprise myself. I lift my pencil in one hand and wave him over with the other. His eyebrows lift, like he’s not sure he saw that right. I give the smallest nod. And just like that, he slides off his stool and starts walking toward me. My heart flickers in my chest—half warning, half thrill. I don’t even know what I’m doing.
But maybe that’s the point.
Chapter Two
Maya
The man rounds the bar with the kind of confidence that either comes from deep comfort in his own skin or years of practice. Maybe both. He’s not swaggering. There’s no arrogance to it. Just ease.
“Mind if I sit?” he asks, gesturing to the empty chair across from me.
“Sure,” I say, gesturing to it with the tip of my pencil. “But only if you’re prepared to give me an honest critique of my sketch. Don’t hold back to spare my feelings.”
He chuckles and sits down, eyeing my sketchbook. “You drawing the boats?”
I flip the page casually. The fantastical harbor kingdom is still half-formed, the spires and sails blending into creatures with wings and long, twisting tails. “Sort of.”
“What’s your story?” he asks. “You look like someone deep in thought, not just drawing for fun.”
And just like that, something sparks in me. That old instinct I’ve had since college. The tiny thrill of slipping into a versionof myself that isn’t bound by deadlines or flares or the dull ache behind my knees.
“I’m Sofia. I’m a traveler,” I say, smoothing out my sundress and sitting up straighter. “Spent the summer touring Europe. Mostly the big cities—Barcelona, Florence, Prague. But I got tired of the crowds and the noise, so I came here to recharge before I head to Istanbul for a wedding.”
His eyebrows rise just slightly. “World traveler, huh?”
I nod solemnly, tapping the eraser end of my pencil against the table. “Art by day, pasta and wine by night. You know the deal.”
“That sounds incredible.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m an astronaut.”
That makes me laugh, loud enough that the bartender glances over.
“Really?” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Outer space?”
“Yep. Just got back from a six-month mission on the ISS.”
I tilt my head and smirk. “Is that so?”
“Is what you said true?” he counters, smirking slightly.
Touché.
I lean back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other. “Do Ilooklike a world traveler?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lets his gaze sweep over me—slowly, not sleazily. My silver seashell earrings. The strappy sundress I bought at a consignment shop last week. The fading henna stain I got at an outdoor art festival still ghosting the inside of my wrist.
“You do,” he says finally. “You look like someone who bought those earrings in Marseilles. And that dress? Definitely from an open-air market in southern Italy. Amalfi, maybe.”
