he number is still on his hand.
Ethan sits in a board meeting, listening to the Head of Operations drone on about Q3 logistical bottlenecks, and he's staring at the back of his right hand.
The black marker has started to fade slightly near the edges of the '7', eroded by two showers and excessive hand sanitizer. But he's been careful. Ridiculously careful. He washed his left hand vigorously and his right hand like he was handling an ancient artifact.
He should have saved the contact immediately. That would be the logical thing to do. Data preservation.
But he didn't.
Every time he looks at the messy, loopy scrawl, he feels a buzz of dopamine that definitely isn't corporate-approved.
"Mr. Cross? Do you concur with the adjustment?"
The room goes silent. Twelve faces turn toward him. Expensive suits. Tired eyes. They're waiting for the razor-sharp dissection, the brutal takedown of flawed logic.
Ethan looks up. "Actually, Parker, I think we should double the allocation for the marketing creative team."
Parker blinks. "Sir? You... you said creative was a money pit last week."
"I was wrong," Ethan says calmly. He leans back, covering the phone number with his other hand. "Sometimes, you need a little chaos to create value. Meeting adjourned."
He stands up and walks out before anyone can pick their jaws up off the mahogany table.
He texted her two days ago.
Ethan: It's Ethan. The shiny shoes guy.
Violet: took you long enough! I was starting to think I hallucinated you. also, tell me you didn't wait 3 days to text because of some outdated dating rule.
Ethan: I was maximizing anticipation.
Violet: nerd. pick me up at 2. try not to wear a tie.
Ethan checks the mirror in his hallway. He's changed four times.
No tie. White oxford shirt, top two buttons undone. Dark jeans. A blazer that says "casual" but cost four grand. It's calculated nonchalance.
He heads down to the garage.
His usual ride is a black Audi sedan—understated, powerful, serious. But she asked for "louder."
He pulls the dust cover off the car in the far corner. It belongs to his brother, Sebastian, who collects cars like Pokémon cards but never drives them.
A vintage 1967 Mustang Convertible. Cherry red. Loud in every sense of the word.
Ethan turns the key. The engine roars to life, a guttural growl that shakes the concrete floor.
"Perfect," he mutters.
Violet lives in a loft above a bakery in the Arts District. The neighborhood is colorful, smelling of yeast and spray paint. Murals cover every brick surface.
When she comes out the door, Ethan's breath catches.
She's wearing overalls. Paint-splattered denim overalls over a yellow t-shirt, with red high-top sneakers. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun with purple tendrils escaping everywhere.
She looks like a kindergarten explosion. She looks amazing.
She spots the car and squeals. Actually squeals.
"No way!" She runs over, running her hand along the red fender. "You did not."
"You said loud," Ethan says, leaning over to pop the passenger door. "Is this sufficient?"
"It's obnoxious," she says, beaming. She hops in. "I love it. Drive, Jeeves."
"My name is Ethan."
"We'll see."
They spend the afternoon doing exactly what Ethan never does: drifting. Not the car—though the Mustang handles corners with a terrifying sway—but them. No itinerary. No reservations.
They drive with the top down. Violet sings along to the radio, loudly and off-key, waving at random pedestrians.
"You have to wave back," she instructs him when they stop at a red light.
"I don't know them."
"That's the point! It makes people wonder. 'Who was that guy in the red car? Did I go to high school with him?' It creates mystery, Ethan. You're adding texture to their day."
So Ethan waves at a construction worker. The worker looks confused, then gives a thumbs up.
"See?" Violet grins. "Texture."
Around 4:00 PM, the sky turns grey. The threatened rain finally arrives, forcing them to pull the roof up and seek shelter.
They duck into a small coffee shop called "The Midnight Brew."
It's cozy inside. Dark wood, smell of roasted beans and old paper, indie folk music playing softly. They grab a booth near the back window, watching the rain streak the glass.
"Coffee time," Violet announces. She slides the menu over without looking at it. "You paying?"
"Obviously."
Ethan goes to the counter. He orders a black coffee for himself.
"And for the lady?" the barista asks. He's a guy with a handlebar mustache and a tattoo of a coffee press on his forearm.
"Vanilla latte," Violet shouts from the booth. "Oat milk! Extra foam! And make it pretty!"
The barista salutes.
When Ethan brings the cups back, Violet claps her hands.
"Look at that." She points to the foam art on her latte. It's a delicate, fern-like leaf pattern. "It's a leaf. Because it's autumn? No, wait, it's spring. Maybe it represents growth."
"It represents surface tension and milk proteins," Ethan says, sitting down.
"Boo." She takes a sip, leaving a foam mustache on her lip. She licks it off. "It represents magic. Also, this is delicious. Vanilla is the superior flavor. Don't fight me on this."
"I prefer the taste of actual coffee."
"Sad." She leans forward, resting her chin on her palm. "So, Mr. Corporate. You changed your clothes. No tie. Jeans. I'm impressed. You almost look like a real person."
"I am a real person."
"Debatable." She taps her spoon against the saucer. Ding, ding, ding. "You act like you're on a timer. Even now. You're checking the door. Checking your phone. What are you afraid you're going to miss?"
Ethan stops. His hand freezes on his mug.
"Habit," he says.
"Habits can be broken." She reaches across the table, taking his hand again. Her fingers are warm. "Be here. Just here. Nowhere else."
Ethan looks at her. The ambient light of the café turns her amber eye into liquid honey. The gold one sparkles.
"Okay," he whispers. "I'm here."
"Good."
She lets go to fish a pen out of her pocket. She grabs a napkin.
"What are you doing?"
"Drawing you," she says. "Don't move. You have a very geometric face. Lots of angles."
"Is that a compliment?"
"For a Cubist? Yes. For a person? Sure."
She starts sketching, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in concentration.
"Tell me something real," she says without looking up. "Not your resume. A secret."
Ethan watches the rain hit the window. "I hate cherry blossoms."
The scratching of the pen stops. She looks up. "Excuse me?"
"They're messy. They clog storm drains. They create slush. Everyone obsesses over them for two weeks, and then they rot. It's inefficient beauty."
Violet stares at him. Then she snorts. "You hate them because they end."
"What?"
"You like things that last," she analyzes. "Steel. Numbers. Contracts. Cherry blossoms are temporary. That scares you."
Ethan frowns. "I'm not scared of flowers, Violet."
"You're scared of loss," she says softly. It's not an accusation. It's a gentle observation. "You want to control everything so nothing can leave you."
Ethan opens his mouth to retort, to tell her she's projecting, to pull out his practiced cynicism. But he can't.
Because she's right.
"Maybe," he admits. The word feels like a stone falling from his throat.
Violet smiles. It's a sad smile this time. "Everything ends, Ethan. That's why it's beautiful. If the blossoms stayed on the tree all year, nobody would look up."
She turns the napkin around.
It's a caricature of him. But instead of mocking him, it's sweet. He looks less severe. His eyes are drawn big, looking at... her. She drew herself reflected in his glasses.
"Keep it," she says. "Proof you were here. With me."
"Violet."
"Yeah?"
"I..." He hesitates. He doesn't know what he wants to say. He wants to say Don't go. He wants to say I've never felt this calm in my life.
He says, "I really like this coffee."
Violet bursts out laughing. "You are literally impossible."
She raises her cup. "To coffee. And coincidences."
Ethan raises his mug. "To coincidences."
Clink.
As she drinks, Violet suddenly coughs. It's a wet, heavy sound that rattles in her chest. She puts the cup down quickly, pressing a hand to her sternum.
Ethan is instantly alert. "You okay?"
She waves him off, squeezing her eyes shut for a second. "Yeah. Just... went down the wrong pipe. And I think I'm allergic to this weather. Pollen tsunami."
"You want water?"
"I'm fine, worrywart." She takes a deep breath, color returning to her cheeks. But for a second, she looked pale. "Actually, can we go? The gallery opens in twenty minutes and I want to judge the bad art."
"Sure."
Ethan stands up. But he watches her as she slides out of the booth. She grabs the table edge for a split second, as if dizzy.
"Violet?"
"I'm good!" She twirls, arms out. "Ready to critique abstract shapes. Let's go."
Ethan follows her out.
He folds the napkin with the drawing carefully, slipping it into his inner jacket pocket, right next to his heart.
The gallery is exactly as predicted: pretentiously lit, smelling of cheap Chardonnay, and full of people wearing glasses with no lenses.
They walk through the exhibits. Violet is merciless.
"That's just a red square," she whispers loudly, standing in front of a canvas titled The Fury of Solitude. "I could paint that with a roller in five minutes."
"It represents the containment of rage," Ethan reads from the placard.
"It represents fifty bucks at a hardware store."
They giggle like school children in the back of a library. People shush them. Ethan doesn't care.
They stop in front of a sculpture made of twisted wire and broken mirrors.
Violet goes quiet.
She stares at her own reflection in the shattered glass. Fractured. Split.
"I like this one," she says softly.
"Why?"
"Because it's broken," she says. "But it still holds the light."
She reaches out, hovering her hand near a sharp edge.
"Do you believe in past lives, Ethan?"
The question comes out of nowhere.
"No," Ethan answers reflexively. "Physics. Biology. Entropy. We are biology that learned to think. When the power goes out, the screen goes black."
"That's dark."
"It's efficient."
"I think..." Violet stares into the jagged mirror. "I think sometimes souls get stuck. Like a record skipping. Maybe we keep meeting the same people until we get it right."
She looks at him.
"Do you think we've met before?"
Ethan looks at her. At the curve of her neck, the splatter of yellow paint on her earlobe she missed, the mismatched eyes that seem to hold the entire spectrum of light.
He's never believed in anything spiritual.
But looking at her, he feels a strange, heavy sense of déjà vu. Like he remembers this moment. Or he remembers wanting this moment.
"I don't think so," Ethan says. "I would have remembered you."
Violet smiles. "Good answer, Shiny Shoes."
She links her arm through his. "Come on. I'm bored of art. Let's go find a rooftop and watch the city breathe."
They end up on the roof of his apartment building.
Technically, guests aren't allowed after 10 PM. Technically, the fire door is alarmed. But Ethan owns the building—or rather, his company does—so he has the master code.
The rain has stopped. The air is scrubbed clean, cold and sharp. The city spreads out below them like a circuit board of diamonds.
Violet leans on the ledge.
"This is better than the bridge," she says.
"Higher," Ethan notes.
"But safe. There's a glass wall." She taps the barrier.
Ethan stands behind her. He can smell her shampoo—citrus and floral. The warmth of her body radiates back toward him.
"Ethan," she says without turning around.
"Yes?"
"I'm glad you caught me."
"Me too."
"No, I mean..." She turns around. Her face is serious. "I was really slipping. It wasn't just a stumble. I... I get dizzy sometimes. Space out."
Ethan frowns. "Have you seen a doctor?"
"Yeah. Doctors are boring. They just tell you to eat kale and sleep more." She dismisses it with a wave of her hand. "But you caught me. You were there."
She steps closer.
"Be there again?" she whispers.
"Always," Ethan says. The word slips out like a vow. "I'll always catch you."
Violet looks up at him. Her eyes search his face, tracking the line of his jaw, his lips.
The air charges with electricity. It's thicker than the humidity before the storm.
Ethan's heart is doing that jackhammer thing again. He slowly, carefully, places his hands on her waist. She feels fragile under the denim overalls.
"Can I..." He starts to ask.
"Just do it, idiot," she breathes.
Ethan leans down.
She rises on her tiptoes.
Their lips meet.
It's not perfect. Their noses bump slightly. Violet tastes like vanilla latte and cherry chapstick. It's hesitant, then deepening. Soft, warm, and utterly terrifying.
Ethan feels like he's free falling. No spreadsheets. No logic. Just this.
Violet hums into the kiss—that same three-note melody.
Mmm-hmm-hmm.
When they pull apart, they're both breathless. Violet's eyes are shining.
"Wow," she says.
"Wow," Ethan agrees. His voice sounds wrecked.
"Okay," Violet says, resting her forehead against his chest. "Okay. That works. That definitely works."
Ethan wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. He rests his chin on her purple hair. He looks out at the city he conquered years ago, and realizes he never actually owned anything until this exact second.
He closes his eyes.
He has the girl. He has the moment. He has forever.
Cough.
Violet coughs against his chest. A small, dry hacking sound. She shivers.
"Cold?" Ethan asks, rubbing her back.
"Just a chill," she murmurs. "Just a goose walking over my grave."
Ethan stiffens. "Don't say that."
"Superstition," she says sleepily. "Take me home, Ethan. I think... I think I'm ready to dream about you."
"Let's go."
As they walk back to the door, hand in hand, Ethan feels a triumphant swelling in his chest. He did it. He won the date. He won the girl.
He has no idea that the timer has already started.
He has no idea that he's walking through a minefield, and the first click is just moments away.
But for tonight, under the clearing sky, he is happy.