She noticed my stare. A faint curve touched her lips, not quite a smile "You're staring."
I didn't flinch "I know."
Her brow arched "And you're not embarrassed?"
"Not when the view is worth it."
This time, the curve deepened. Not a laugh, not full amusement—but something softer, like she was unused to compliments that weren't laced with expectation.
The man at the counter glanced over then, his gaze lingering on her longer than it should have. I caught it, sharp and uninvited, and an unfamiliar heat rose in me. My chest tightened, my jaw clenched. Irrational, maybe—but I didn't want strangers looking at her like that.
Aria noticed him too. She shifted uncomfortably, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, pulling her jacket closer as if to shield herself from wandering eyes.
I spoke before thinking "Ignore him.... He doesn't deserve to look."
Her gaze snapped back to me, studying my face carefully. Something unreadable flickered in her eyes—surprise, maybe even relief. Then she tilted her head "You sound… possessive. We just met."
"Maybe," I admitted, leaning forward, "but some things don't ask for permission. They just happen."
The words hung between us, heavy, undeniable.
She traced her finger along the edge of her cup, slow, deliberate, as if considering how much of herself to reveal. Finally, she whispered, "I don't know if I should be afraid of you… or comforted."
I swallowed, heat pooling in my chest "Maybe both."
For the first time, she laughed—low, soft, a sound like water breaking free from stone. It wasn't loud, but it filled me in ways I hadn't realized I was starving for.
The rain outside thickened into a mist, fogging the glass windows of the café. From our booth in the corner, the world beyond looked blurred, softened, like it wasn't entirely real. Inside, though, everything between us sharpened. Every movement, every glance, every word.
Aria leaned back against the wooden seat, her shoulders easing, though her eyes never lost their guarded edge. She was a contradiction—fragile and fierce at once—and it pulled me toward her in ways I couldn't rationalize.
"You're strange," she said finally, her tone laced with quiet curiosity.
"Strange how?"
"You don't ask the usual things. Not where I'm from, not what I do… not why I was running."
I set my coffee down, meeting her gaze "Because I don't care about answers. I care about the truth behind them."
She studied me, her lips parting slightly, as though the words had struck something deeper than I intended.
"You talk like you already know me," she whispered.
"Maybe I do"
Silence stretched again, but it wasn't empty—it vibrated, charged with a current neither of us could resist.
Her hand brushed against the table's edge, fingers restless. Without thinking, I reached across, letting mine graze hers. The contact was feather-light, almost nothing. Yet it sent a jolt through me, sharp and undeniable.
She didn't pull away....Not immediately. Her eyes flicked down at our hands, then back to my face, searching for intent.
"You don't even know my story," she murmured.
"Then tell me," I said. My voice came out lower, rougher than I intended.
Her breath caught, just barely. She pulled her hand back, tucking it into her lap, but not before I felt the ghost of her warmth.
"I can't," she said finally "Not yet."
I nodded, though disappointment curled in my chest "Then let me guess."
That earned me the smallest smile, though her eyes shimmered with something sad "Guess wrong, and you'll ruin the mystery."
"I don't mind ruins," I said "They tell more stories than polished walls."
Her smile lingered this time, fragile but real. For a moment, I thought she'd lean closer, that the night would fold us into something reckless and undeniable.
But the bell above the café door chimed.
Aria stiffened instantly, her fingers tightening on her mug. Her eyes flicked to the entrance, then back down to the table.
I followed her gaze. A tall man had stepped inside, shaking off rain from his coat. His eyes scanned the café casually, but I didn't miss the way Aria sank slightly lower in her seat, her hair falling like a curtain between her and the door.
Jealousy surged in me—sharp, irrational, protective. Whoever he was, I hated the way her entire body reacted to his presence.
"Do you know him?" I asked quietly.
Her jaw tightened "Not anymore."
The words were clipped, final—but her trembling fingers betrayed her.
I wanted to reach across, to take her hand and steady it. I wanted to shield her from the man's gaze, from whatever history shadowed her but I also wanted to know—why did he have that power over her? What had he been to her?
She glanced up at me, and in her eyes I saw it: the unspoken plea. Don't ask....Not yet.
And so I didn't. Instead, I leaned in, keeping my voice firm but soft "Then tonight, you're here with me. Let him be a ghost."
Her lips parted as though to protest, but she didn't. Instead, her shoulders dropped slightly, and for the first time since I met her, she looked like she allowed herself to breathe.
The man at the counter ordered a drink, his voice low, indistinct beneath the hum of the espresso machine. Yet Aria's reaction to him told me everything I needed to know. She didn't look at him directly, but every nerve in her body seemed tuned to his presence.
Her fingers, delicate but restless, tapped against the side of her mug. She wasn't drinking anymore. She was surviving.
"Aria," I murmured, careful...steady.
Her eyes flicked to mine, wide... uncertain.
"You don't have to shrink," I said "Not with me."
Her lips trembled—just slightly—before she pressed them together "You don't understand."
"You're right," I admitted "But I want to."
Something shifted then. Maybe it was the weight of my voice, maybe the conviction in it. Her hand moved from the mug, slowly, as if pulled by gravity she couldn't fight. When her fingers brushed mine again, there was no hesitation.
I turned my palm up, and she let hers rest inside.
Warmth.... Fragile.... Electric.
Her breathing changed—deeper now, but uneven, as though she wasn't sure if touching me was a mistake or salvation. I held her hand gently, careful not to scare her away but firm enough to let her know she wasn't alone.
For a moment, she looked at our hands rather than at me. Then, slowly... her gaze rose, meeting mine.
The café faded. The rain, the students, the man at the counter—they all dissolved into blur. All I saw was her, all I felt was the current sparking between us.
"Why do you care?" she whispered, her voice breaking like glass.
The question pierced deeper than I expected. I swallowed, tightening my grip on her hand "Because some collisions aren't accidents. Some are the start of everything."
Her lips parted. A sound escaped—half laugh, half sob—and her free hand went to her mouth as if to contain it. I wanted to pull her closer, to tell her she didn't need to hide any piece of herself from me.
But then the man at the counter turned.
His eyes swept the café, and for a fraction of a second, they landed on her. Recognition flared there, sharp as a blade.
Aria froze. Her nails pressed into my skin.
I didn't need words to know: this wasn't over. Whoever he was, he wasn't a ghost after all. He was real and he had just found her.
Aria's whisper was so soft I almost didn't catch it "We need to leave.... Now."
And just like that, our night—the fragile sanctuary we had built in an hour—shattered into urgency.
Her whisper was almost swallowed by the hum of the café: "We need to leave. Now."
For a second, I just held her gaze, searching her eyes for explanation. Fear glimmered there, raw and sharp but layered beneath it was trust. She wasn't just asking me to leave; she was asking me to follow her into whatever shadows haunted her.
I stood first, sliding out of the booth, never breaking the link of our joined hands. She rose quickly after me, clutching her bag tight against her chest. Her books shifted inside, their edges pressing out as if her whole world was stuffed into that bag.
The bell above the café door chimed faintly as we slipped out. The misty air swallowed us whole, cool and damp against my skin. Rain had begun again, fine threads weaving the streetlights into halos.
"Aria—" I started.
"Not here," she cut me off, her voice urgent, her breath quick. Her eyes darted back toward the café, then down the street.
I didn't ask again. Not yet, I simply followed as she pulled me into the rain.
Her steps were quick, almost frantic, splashing through puddles as she wove between alleys and side streets. The city seemed different at this pace—less familiar, more like a labyrinth designed to hide or trap. I matched her stride, though every nerve in me buzzed with questions.