I wasn't looking for love the night I met him.
I was looking for quiet.
The city never really slept, but that night it hummed softer, like it knew I needed space. Streetlights blurred into gold streaks against the windshield as I drove with the windows down, letting warm air tangle with my thoughts. I told myself I was fine. I'd been telling myself that a lot lately.
Fine meant focused.
Fine meant untouched.
Fine meant not letting anyone get close enough to ruin the careful balance I'd built.
I parked outside the café I always came to when my mind felt too loud. It wasn't special, just a small place tucked between a bookstore and a closed tailor shop, but it felt safe. Predictable. And predictability was my comfort.
Inside, the smell of coffee wrapped around me instantly. Low music played from hidden speakers, something slow and soulful. I ordered my usual, nodded politely to the barista, and chose a corner table by the window.
That's when I noticed him.
He wasn't trying to be noticed. That was the strange part. No loud laughter, no phone glued to his hand. He sat alone at the counter, sleeves rolled up, fingers wrapped loosely around a cup he hadn't touched in minutes. His reflection flickered faintly in the mirror behind the shelves, eyes distant, like he was somewhere else entirely.
I looked away.
I always did. Not because I wasn't curious but because curiosity had a habit of becoming attachment, and attachment had a way of hurting.
I pulled out my notebook instead. Blank pages stared back at me, accusing. I'd promised myself I would write tonight. Clear my head. Make sense of things. But my pen hovered uselessly above the paper.
"Mind if I sit here?"
The voice startled me.
I looked up before I could stop myself, and there he was, standing too close, holding his cup like he wasn't sure where else to put it. His eyes met mine, dark and steady, waiting.
I should have said no.
I should have smiled politely and pointed to the many empty tables around us.
Instead, I heard myself say, "Sure."
He sat down slowly, like he didn't want to scare me off. The corner suddenly felt smaller. Warmer. Too aware of shared air and quiet breathing.
"Long day?" he asked.
"Something like that," I replied, already regretting how easily the words came.
He smiled; not wide, not forced. Just enough to feel real. "This place has that effect. Makes people look like they're carrying more than they planned."
I studied him then, really studied him. There was something calm about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to impress me. Like he didn't need anything from me at all.
That scared me more than confidence ever could.
"I'm Alex," he said, offering his hand.
I hesitated for half a second before taking it. His grip was warm, steady. Too grounding.
"Chloe."
The name lingered between us.
We talked about nothing important. Coffee. The city. The way time moved faster at night. But somehow, it felt like everything mattered. Like the smallest details were threading something invisible between us.
I laughed a real laugh before I realized I'd let my guard down.
When the silence returned, it wasn't awkward. It was heavy. Charged.
"I should go," I said finally, even though I didn't want to.
He nodded, like he understood more than I'd said. "Yeah. Me too."
Outside, the night air felt different. Thicker. As if something had shifted while I wasn't paying attention.
As we stood there, neither of us moving, I knew one thing with unsettling clarity:
Meeting him wasn't part of my plan.
And yet, as I walked away, heart beating faster than it had in months, I couldn't shake the feeling that this was only the beginning.