I didn't realize it at first—the way he noticed the little things.
When I reached for a napkin, he had already slid one across the table. When I laughed at something Alex said, his eyes flicked toward me, soft and approving, before returning to the conversation. And the way he spoke—it was like he had time for every word, every glance, every small detail about me.
I caught myself leaning slightly closer without thinking, drawn into the quiet gravity of his presence.
"You really do appreciate the subtlety in wine, don't you?" he asked, swirling his glass.
"I guess I do," I said, smiling. "I never thought wine could have… personality."
"Everything has personality if you know how to look," he said lightly, and I felt the unspoken weight of it. Not just about wine. About everything.
The conversation drifted easily to art, literature, and the quirks of human behavior. He asked me about my lectures, the books I was reading, my thoughts on ethics in society. His questions weren't just polite—they were pointed in a way that made me think, made me stretch, made me want to answer with honesty rather than what I thought sounded right.
I found myself teasing him back, letting small jokes slip between serious topics.
"You seem to live in a very… well-structured world," I said, leaning back, testing the boundaries.
He smirked, a glint in his eyes. "Structured, yes. But full of surprises."
I raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
"Like meeting someone who challenges you without even trying," he said casually, and I felt a flutter in my chest I tried hard to ignore.
At one point, he made a small, dry joke about introducing me to his family.
"Careful," he said lightly, smiling as he sipped his wine. "My mother likes to meet people she approves of very early. She'd probably schedule tea within a week."
I choked on a laugh, feeling the tension in my chest loosen. "Tea? That's… terrifying."
He shrugged, all calm charm. "Or lovely. Depends on how prepared you are."
I blinked at him, laughing softly. The playful ease between us made my pulse pick up, even as I tried to focus on my glass.
Every so often, he'd glance at me with a quiet intensity, just long enough to make me aware he was there—but never so long it felt suffocating. It was intoxicating, subtle, and carefully measured. I realized then that this was different from anything I'd felt before.
He wasn't loud. He didn't need to impress. Every gesture, every word, every glance was deliberate. He made me feel… seen. Not in the way Daniel had wanted me to perform or react. But genuinely, thoughtfully.
By the time the evening ended, I felt lighter. Smarter. Curious. And maybe, just maybe, dangerously aware of how much I was starting to care.