I was slumped in my car, still trying to make sense of the chaos of the day, when I saw him.
And oh my God…
Jesus! Are there still men like this in the world?
He wasn't only attractive—he owned the street. Broad shoulders, rolled-up sleeves, and the kind of arms that made you wish you had a reason to touch them. His walk—slow, measured, confident—was like he knew exactly the effect he had on the world without even trying.
I felt… heat. A little thrill, a shiver that started in my chest and settled low. My stomach twisted. I couldn't help staring.
He moved past my car, and I swear, every step was like a silent challenge. I didn't even see his face clearly, but I didn't need to. The angle of his neck, the way his shirt hugged him… I was caught. Hooked.
A café. That's where he disappeared. Warm light spilling out, a quiet hum of life inside. My stomach growled. Funny, right? Here I was, starving and broken, and suddenly my body was alive in a way it hadn't been all day.
I shook my head at myself. "Focus, Mira."
But I couldn't. Something about him had me trembling. My pulse raced in a way I hadn't felt since… well, since before Marcus. Heat pooled low in my belly, and I didn't even know why.
I exhaled.
"Aren't you hungry?" I murmured to myself. My stomach answered before my pride could. A low, insistent growl.
I almost laughed. I checked my bag mentally. I had cash. Not luxury money—but enough. Enough to eat, to sit somewhere clean, and to breathe for an hour.
"Stop acting like the world has ended," I told myself. "You're allowed to eat."
I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. Tired eyes. Smudged makeup. But beneath it—still me. Still feminine. Still composed, even if cracked.
"No," I said quietly. "I'm not walking in there looking defeated."
I touched up quickly. Concealer. Powder. Lip gloss. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to remind myself I still existed.
Every step toward the door felt electric. My heels clicked against the pavement, but it wasn't the sound that made me pulse. It was the heat that pooled low in my belly, warm and insistent, like my body was screaming at me to notice him. Screaming at me to really notice this man. My chest tightened, my skin prickled, and my pulse thudded in a rhythm I hadn't felt all day.
Why was I so drawn to him? What was it about the way he moved, the way he carried himself, that made my knees almost weak? Every instinct in me wanted to know—who is this man? Why does he make my stomach twist like this?
Thoughts tumbled in, unwanted and dizzying, and I almost laughed at myself. "Focus, Mira. Stop thinking like this. You're heartbroken. You're a mess. Just go eat."
I shook it off, forced my head high, and pushed those wild thoughts to the back of my mind.
I opened the café door.
And just like that, I stepped in… as the queen that I was. Pride in my posture, fire in my eyes. Ready to slay. Ready to notice. Ready to take it all in. Ready… to kill.
I walked in, trying to catch my balance, trying to catch myself, trying to feel human again after the chaos of the day. But as I moved toward the counter to place my order, another storm of thoughts hit me.
What if he leaves? What if the man who forced me out of my car, who made my pulse race for reasons I shouldn't admit, walks away now? What am I supposed to do? What can I even do at this point?
But then I remembered something more pressing. My stomach. My actual, screaming hunger. My energy tank was at one percent. I was exhausted, drained, and dehydrated from the tears, the screaming, and the pleading. I had been running on fumes all day. I pushed myself through heartbreak, humiliation, and chaos. I had survived things today I didn't even know I could survive. And somehow, I'd made it here. My body and my car had gotten me here, and now I needed fuel and energy. I needed to stay alive just to exist in this moment and to feast my eyes on this man without collapsing.
So I walked to the counter and ordered my meal. With an air of control I didn't feel. My mind scanned the café, tracing the space, calculating the perfect spot to sit. the perfect angle to watch him—this treasure who had my full, unfiltered attention. But first, I had to eat. I had to live.
Meal ordered. Eyes sharp. Heart racing. I was ready to sit, ready to drink him in… ready to feel.
I didn't only want to feast on imagination. I didn't only want to admire him from a safe distance or let my mind do all the work.
I wanted to see him. I wanted his face. I wanted his eyes. I wanted to know if looking into them would make me lose my balance for half a second.
Maybe flirt a little, smile, or even wink.
What? It had been a long time since I'd played this game.
And honestly, I didn't even know where the audacity came from—but then again, I'd been handed audacity all day. Fired. Evicted. Stripped bare of comfort. So why not borrow a little courage too? I had nothing to lose. I was already broke. Already homeless. Already standing at the edge of everything.
So why not live for five minutes? I didn't want to overdo it. I didn't want to look desperate. I didn't want to chase or force anything. I just wanted to enjoy God's craftsmanship.
I inhaled deeply, steadying myself as thoughts slid through my mind. Then I noticed where he sat: at the left wing. Perfect. If I wanted to see his face, I'd have to face the entrance.
So I chose a table. One table away from his. Close enough to notice. Far enough to keep my dignity intact.
I walked over like I wasn't aware of the way my pulse had quickened. Like I hadn't rehearsed the moment in my head. I sat down, waiting for my order, and that was when it hit me—
The way my body reacted when I walked past him caught me off guard.
That quiet pull.
That sudden awareness.
My heart started racing—so fast it felt like it might leap out of my chest. My chest cavity felt warm, alive, and almost buzzing. It felt real. And for the first time all day, I didn't hate the feeling. I welcomed it. I let myself enjoy it. After everything—the humiliation, loss, and tears. This sensation felt like proof that I was still here.
Still breathing. Still capable of feeling something good. So I sat down. Controlled like a composure queen—honestly, someone should hand me that award.
I didn't look up immediately. I picked up my phone and fiddled with it, pretending I was searching for something important. Anything to look busy. Anything to look unbothered. Waiting for my order. Doing me. Protecting my dignity. Not staring. Not reaching. Not giving myself away.
What I didn't know—what I had no idea about—was that I had already caught his attention. The entire time I was pretending to be mature and collected, he was watching me.
A steady, serious stare. Unrushed. Undistracted.
I didn't see it. Not at first. But later, it would feel like he already knew me. Like there was a familiarity in his gaze, as though we'd crossed paths in another life. Another version of time. It wasn't careless or hungry—it was intentional. Curious. Focused and Interested.
By the time my order arrived, I lifted my eyes to signal the waitress to clear the table—and that was when I felt it. That sudden drop in my chest. Like ice water sliding down my spine.
My eyes collided with his. It was direct, angled, and unapologetic.
For a split second, I froze.
The waiter set my food down, and I immediately looked away, suddenly too aware of my own face. Heat rushed to my cheeks. I was blushing—hard. The kind of blush you can't control. The kind that betrays you.
I focused on my meal, suddenly shy and flustered.
I had planned to steal glances. To control the moment. To be the one watching. I didn't expect to be the one seen. After everything I'd been through that day—after losing my home, my job, and my sense of safety—I felt myself trembling.
Not from fear exactly. From the shock of feeling wanted when I least expected it.
I no longer had the balls to stare. I no longer dared to look.
"Mira, come on," I told myself. Just look. Return the glance. Be sexy. Be naughty. Own it."
But I couldn't.
I was soaked in tension—yes, that was it. Tense. Overstimulated. My nerves were shot, my emotions piled on top of each other like wreckage. I was too shaken to return the gesture, too aware of myself to risk another second of eye contact.
Then, just as I was about to take my first sip—
What did I even order?
Something warm. Something grounding. Something I needed more than I wanted.
I lifted the glass, and right before it touched my lips, it happened.
A sharp flicker.
Like a light bulb snapping on in my head.
Wait.
I froze mid‑movement.
I hadn't really looked—not properly. I'd been drowning in my own chaos, too busy trying to hold myself together. But now, I slowly raised my eyes. This time, I didn't flinch. I didn't look away.
I looked. And I stayed. That was when it hit me. That was when I understood why my body had reacted before my mind could catch up. Why the pull felt familiar. Why didn't I feel random?
Everything I'd been feeling—every strange, electric sensation—suddenly made sense.
Because I knew that face. I knew him. And yet… what did he know about me?
Ethan.