The rain had turned to a fine mist, the kind that clung to hair and lashes without quite falling. They walked in silence for a while after the kiss, neither willing to break the fragile calm that had settled between them.
He didn't want the day to end.
They followed the river, passing under lamplight and over puddles that shimmered gold. The city around them glowed softly, blurred by the mist — London at its gentlest. He could almost forget the noise, the people, the years that had hardened him.
Then she looked up at him, her smile hesitant and real. "Do you want to get a coffee or something?"
He turned his head slightly, amused. "You want coffee at this time of night?"
She blushed faintly. "All right, maybe not coffee. Tea?"
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. "You and your peppermint tea."
But he followed her, because he'd follow her anywhere now.
They found a small riverside café still open — one of those tucked-away places with soft music and steamed-up windows. The bell over the door chimed when they entered, and warmth enveloped them instantly.
There were only a few other people inside: an older couple sharing a dessert, two students working on laptops. They chose a table by the window, where they could still see the Thames glinting faintly in the dark.
The waitress smiled at them as if she already knew. They ordered tea and a slice of chocolate cake to share — an unspoken decision that felt strangely intimate.
When the drinks arrived, Isabelle wrapped her hands around her mug, needing the warmth. She could feel her pulse in her fingers.
"I can't believe we're here," she murmured, half to herself.
Robert looked at her over his cup, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips. "Neither can I."
He hesitated, then said softly, "I've thought about this moment too many times."
She glanced up quickly. "You have?"
He nodded, eyes steady on hers. "Every day since that night at the launch. I told myself it couldn't happen. That it shouldn't. But it didn't stop me wanting it."
Her breath caught. She stared down at her tea, her voice barely above a whisper. "I thought I was the only one who couldn't stop thinking about it."
He reached across the table, placing his hand over hers. "You're not."
The air between them shifted again — tender, trembling, electric.
For the first time in years, he wasn't planning what to say next. He just wanted to sit there, watching her laugh softly over a shared slice of cake, her cheeks still flushed from the cold.
He realised, with a quiet shock, that she made him feel… young. Not naïve, not foolish — just alive again.
When she spoke, he listened. Every small detail about her life — the way Luke had started drawing dinosaurs on every surface, how Becca was now "too cool" to hold her mum's hand in public — it all fascinated him.
And when she turned the conversation to him, asking about his time in Munich and New York, about the places he'd lived and the people he'd worked with, he found himself telling her things he hadn't said to anyone in years.
There was no performance. No mask.
Just two people rediscovering warmth in a world that had grown too cold.
They talked for hours, the rain tapping softly at the windows, the city outside blurring into silence.
It wasn't flirtation anymore — not exactly. It was something deeper, gentler. Two lives slowly aligning, like stars finding their right place again.
She'd never seen him this open, this unguarded. The man who once seemed carved from steel was smiling — actually smiling — and there was light in his eyes that hadn't been there before.
When they finally left the café, the rain had stopped. The pavements shone, and the air smelled faintly of wet stone and spring blossoms.
They walked side by side, hands joined as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He looked down at their joined hands and smiled, almost disbelieving. Then he gently squeezed her fingers, holding them as if they were something precious.
When they reached her street, he wished the walk were longer.
The night had that soft quiet London sometimes gets after rain — every sound hushed, every light a halo. Her building came into view too soon.
He stopped outside, his heart thudding with a mix of joy and fear.
She turned to face him, looking suddenly shy. "Thank you for today and... this."
"For walking you home?"
"For being here," she said simply. "For listening."
He swallowed hard. "You make it sound like I did something noble."
"You did," she said with a small smile. "You didn't run."
He wanted to tell her he didn't run from her — only from himself. But the words tangled in his throat. Instead, he reached up, brushing a damp strand of hair from her cheek.
"I should probably go in," she whispered.
He nodded, though every part of him wanted to ask her to stay. "Goodnight, Isabelle."
She hesitated, searching his face. "Goodnight, Robert."
And then — before logic could catch up — he leaned forward and kissed her.
It was softer than the one on the bridge, but no less powerful. A quiet promise, a seal on everything unsaid.
When he drew back, her eyes were shining.
He smiled gently. "Sleep well."
She nodded, lips parting as if to speak, but no words came. Then she turned, fumbling with her keys, disappearing inside with one last look over her shoulder.
He didn't go home straight away.
He walked for a while, aimless, hands in his pockets, the night air cool against his skin. He couldn't stop replaying the evening — her laughter, her voice, holding her hand, that second kiss.
By the time he reached his flat, it was almost midnight. He poured himself a glass of whisky, sat on the edge of the sofa, and stared at his phone for a full five minutes before giving in.
Did that really happen tonight? he typed. You and me, walking by the river, that café… the kiss?
He stared at it, debating whether to send it — then pressed send before he could change his mind.
The reply came almost instantly.
It did. I promise; even though it feels like a dream.
He felt himself smiling, wide and helpless.
Good. Because it's the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.
There was a pause, then her message came through:
Me too.
He leaned back, laughter escaping him softly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this — the lightness, the ridiculous excitement of it all.
He typed again:
I'd like to see you again. Soon.
Me too, she replied. Soon.
Then
Goodnight, Robert.
Goodnight, Isabelle.
He set his phone down, still smiling like a man who'd finally stepped into sunlight after years of shade.
And for once, he didn't overthink it.
She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her phone still glowing faintly on the nightstand.
Her heart hadn't stopped racing since their kiss on the bridge.
She could still feel the press of his lips, the warmth of his hand against her cheek, the way he'd looked at her as if he couldn't quite believe she was real.
It terrified her — how much she already cared, how much she wanted this to work. But beneath the fear was something steadier, stronger, giving her the strength to keep going.
Hope.
She smiled to herself, turning off her lamp.
For the first time in a long while, the world felt full of promise again.
That night, all she could think about was the man who had finally kissed her like she was his.