The winter air bit at her cheeks the moment she stepped outside. She pulled her coat tighter, the fabric of her navy dress rustling underneath, and slipped her gloved fingers into her coat pocket — except one hand, which still held her phone.
The image on the screen stared back at her.
A man — tall, sharp-jawed, leaning slightly over a counter dusted with powdered sugar. Apron tied carelessly around his waist, sleeves rolled, dark hair mussed like he'd run his hands through it mid-recipe. Serious eyes. A quiet kind of intensity.
Sarah slowed at the thought, chewing her bottom lip.
This is fine. You're just meeting him for coffee. People do this. Every day. Without fainting.
She checked the time.
Twentyminuteslate.
Perfect. Now she'd seem uninterested and slightly rude — an ideal start to an already surreal day.
The café came into view — charming, old-fashioned, and tucked between a bookstore and a florist. The little blackboard sign outside read, "Today's special: Almond brioche & awkward first meetings."
Sarah nearly laughed.
She paused at the door, glanced down at her phone one last time, then blacked out the screen. Her reflection in the glass door stared back — flushed cheeks, wind-blown hair, eyes still uncertain.
With one last breath, she pushed the door open, stepping into the warm scent of cinnamon, espresso, and something faintly citrus. The bell above tinkled softly.
She was officially in.
A few tables were scattered with couples and quiet readers, but her eyes found him almost instantly. Seated by the window, one hand rested on the table, fingers idly tapping, the other curled around a closed menu.
He looked up as she approached, and for a moment, she couldn't read his expression. Then he stood — slowly, with that same deliberate ease — and gave her a small nod.
"You must be Chloe," he said. His voice was deeper than she expected. Measured.
Sarah blinked. Right. She wasn't Sarah today.
She managed a soft smile. "Yes."
"Took you long enough," he said — not unkindly, but not teasing either. Just... stating it.
Sarah blinked, caught off guard. "The train was late," she lied smoothly.
He nodded once, as though that was acceptable.
Then, turning to the barista who had just approached, he said, "One honey cinnamon latte. Extra foam. No sugar."
Sarah froze.
That was... Chloe's order. Or apparently hers.
He glanced sideways at her, not missing her surprise. "You mentioned it once," he added casually. "Said it was your winter comfort drink."
She recovered with a tight smile. "Right. I did."
He didn't say anything — just resumed his seat, posture relaxed but unmistakably composed.
Sarah sat across from him, pulling her coat off slowly. The warmth of the café seemed to sink into her bones, but not quite enough to settle the flutter in her chest.
He studied her for a moment, then said, "You look different from what I imagined."
Her heart tripped. "Different how?"
His gaze lingered for a breath. "Less curated."
The word hit her like a cold sip of water — not cruel, but sharp. He wasn't buying the illusion. Or maybe he was, but with caution.
She cleared her throat, glancing around. "I wasn't expecting to be interrogated."
"You're not," he said simply. "Just... observing."
And then, his eyes softened — only slightly. "You didn't really want to come, did you?"
She met his gaze. For a second, she almost told the truth.
"No," she said instead. "But I'm here."
He gave a small nod. "That's enough."
The coffee arrived. She took a sip — too sweet, too foamy. Not her thing at all.
He didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and just didn't say a word.
The coffee arrived just as she settled in. The honey cinnamon latte was placed in front of her with a cheery "Enjoy," followed by a darker mug that the barista slid toward him.
Sarah glanced at his cup. Black. No sugar, no cream. Of course.
A man who drank his coffee like that probably didn't believe in dessert either. Or second chances.
She wrapped her hands around the cup Chloe had supposedly adored, trying not to flinch at the foam sliding too far over the rim. Too sweet, too warm. Too not-her.
He took a slow sip of his own, like it was a habit, not a pleasure.
"You don't strike me as a latte kind of person," he said, raising an eyebrow without lifting his gaze from her.
She smiled. "Well, I do like it."
He let the ghost of a smile tug one corner of his mouth. Nothing full. Nothing reassuring. Like he found something amusing about the effort she was making — not mocking, just aware.
Sarah took another sip. "So, black coffee, huh? That's... intense."
He finally looked at her, meeting her eyes. "Or honest."
That landed differently.
Not wrong, just direct. And maybe a little deliberate. As if everything he said had a layer beneath it, waiting to be noticed.
Sarah leaned back slightly, her own gaze narrowing — not defensive, but assessing.
"Honest can be bitter," she said.
He didn't blink. "Some things are meant to be."
She watched him for a beat longer, unsure whether he was being philosophical or just evasive.
"I don't mind bitter," she said finally, "just not when it pretends to be sweet."
That made him look at her again — properly this time. His gaze sharpened, as if she'd said something he hadn't expected. He didn't smile, not quite, but there was the faintest flicker of interest, like a match struck in the quiet.
"Noted."
A silence settled, not awkward but dense — the kind that feels like it's leading somewhere. Sarah glanced at her cup again, then back at him.
"So," she said, "you own a bakery."
He nodded. "I do."
"That's oddly... charming."
His brow lifted a fraction. "Oddly?"
She tilted her head. "I mean, for someone who drinks coffee like it's punishment."
That time, he chuckled — low and short, the kind that came from someone who didn't laugh easily but knew how to appreciate wit when it surfaced.
"Guilty. But I'm not a complete monster. I make pastries that could convince a skeptic."
"Pastries, huh?" she sipped again, more for time than taste. "Is this a strategy?"
His eyes met hers. "If it were, would it be working?"
Sarah hesitated — not because she didn't know the answer, but because she did.
She put the cup down and crossed one leg over the other, feigning a calm she was only half-sure she owned. "That depends on the pastry."
He leaned forward slightly, arms resting on the table, his voice smooth but quiet. "Then I'll choose carefully next time."
She caught that — nexttime. She didn't know whether to be intrigued or terrified.
She looked at him over the rim of her cup, thoughtful now.
"One thing I've been meaning to ask," she said, letting the words come slow. "Last night... when you messaged. You said you'd be picking me up if I didn't respond." Her tone was light, but her eyes weren't.
His gaze didn't waver. But something in his jaw moved — a pause that wasn't quite discomfort, more like calculation.
"I did."
"You didn't have my address."
A beat. Then he leaned back, fingers tracing the edge of his cup.
"I had my ways."
"Which are?"
He studied her face for a second, then offered the faintest of smiles — the kind that revealed nothing but suggested everything.
"You gave it to me," he said simply.
She frowned. "I did not."
He held her gaze. "Not today."
Something in her chest fluttered — the way he said it, like he was in on a secret only he could hold still.
"I don't remember that."
He raised one brow, his expression unreadable. "You should keep better track of what you give away."
She blinked, caught between amusement and the quiet chill of being seen.
"And do you always trace women's addresses when plans get shaky?"
He didn't respond immediately — just studied her with that quiet, unreadable calm.
He offered a light smile, resting an arm on the back of his chair.
"Not really. But sometimes, when you want to meet someone, you figure it out."
The tension that had lingered between them started to thin, and Sarah, despite herself, allowed a flicker of amusement to show.
He reached into his coat and slid a clean, minimalist card across the table.
"My bakery," he said. "If you ever want to see where the real magic happens."
She picked it up, glanced at the name — Delight — then back at him.
"And if I call this number?"
"I'll answer," he said, calm and certain, like it was the most simplest promise in the world.
She offered a small nod, tucking the card into her coat pocket — not with the intention of ever using it, just out of courtesy.
Because in her mind, this had already ended.
It was a handoff, a quiet arrangement wrapped in borrowed names and borrowed stories — an hour, no more.
She laughed softly.
"I'll try not to interrupt a pastry emergency."
"Appreciated," he said, finishing his coffee. "But interruptions aren't always bad."
The moment Sarah stepped out of the café, the cold December air bit at her cheeks — though it did little to cool the heat rising under her skin.
She walked briskly, heels echoing against the pavement, her thoughts spiraling like steam off that ridiculous coffee.
Who drinks burnt caramel and sea salt in the same mug? And why did he think she liked it?
Because Chloe told him.
Of course she did.
And the address —
He didn't dig it up. She gave it. Just like that.
She has to answer!