Aodhan's POV

The line in the café moves slowly.
I'm not used to waiting in lines.

Normally, one of my assistants handles coffee runs, meetings, every small inconvenience that eats away at the day. But I'd been walking back from a property inspection when the rain started, and the smell of espresso pulled me in.

I didn't expect her.

At first I don't recognize her. She's wearing a plain T-shirt, hair pulled back, sleeves pushed up. No red dress, no smoky lights, none of the electricity of that night. Then she turns her head, and my chest goes tight.

She looks different. Softer. Real. The memory hits like static—her laugh, the way she whispered my name as if it surprised her.

For a second, I just watch her. She moves behind the counter with quiet focus, not the nervous girl I remember. Then her coworker calls her name.

"Roisin, can you take the order?"

Her head jerks up, and our eyes meet. Roisin.

The world narrows again—same as before, that impossible, weightless pull. She looks startled, then guarded, as if she's already built walls in the seconds since she saw me.

"Didn't think I'd see you again," I say.

"Life's full of surprises," she replies, polite, distant.

The sound of her voice should make it easier. It doesn't.

When she hands me the cup, her fingers tremble. Not fear—something else.

I want to ask her why she left that morning, if she meant to disappear, if she's all right. Instead I say nothing. Old habits: stay composed, stay unreadable.

She turns away, and I stand there for a beat too long before leaving.

⸻

Outside, the city noise feels sharper.

I walk without destination, coffee cooling in my hand, thoughts looping like a broken record. I've had a hundred nights like that one—easy, forgettable, clean breaks. None of them ever lingered.

But this—

Something about the way she looked at me, the way she didn't look at me, sticks under my skin.

By the time I reach my car, I already know I'll see her again.

I tell myself it's simple curiosity. Closure.

But even as the lie forms, I know better.
____

By the time I reach the office, the city has swallowed my thoughts into its usual rhythm—honking cabs, the metallic hum of elevators, the faint echo of my shoes on polished marble.
But she's still there.
Every time I close my eyes, I see her face when she realized who I was.

The top floor of Stone Holdings is all glass and quiet. My assistant, Clara, greets me with her usual efficiency. "Morning, Mr. Stone. The presentation for the new development is at ten. Your lunch with the investors is confirmed."

"Cancel the lunch," I say, shrugging off my jacket.

She blinks. "Cancel, sir?"

"I'll reschedule."
I don't explain, and she doesn't ask. I hired her for that reason.

In my office, the skyline stretches beyond the windows—New York endless and glittering. I set the coffee down untouched and lean against the desk. My reflection in the glass looks composed, successful, untouchable.
Exactly the way I've built myself to be.
So why can't I stop thinking about her?

Most women blur together after the first conversation. I remember names, faces, the way they laughed when they thought I wasn't listening—but not the feeling. With her, it's different. There was nothing calculated, nothing practiced. She was just... herself. And when she looked at me this morning, she wasn't impressed or interested. She was scared.

Or hiding something.

I turn that thought over in my mind until it sharpens into something like resolve.

If she's working at that café, it means she's local. Easy enough to find out which one. I can stop by, return the favor for the drink she never ordered.
I could even tell myself it's business. Networking.
A harmless coincidence.

I almost believe that.

Clara knocks softly. "Sir? The meeting—"

"I'll be there in a minute."

When she leaves, I pull my phone from my pocket and scroll to the club's security contacts. One text, and I could have her last name, her address, her entire history by lunch. I pause, thumb hovering over the screen.

No. That would make this something else—something ugly.

Instead, I type a note to myself: 'Find reason to revisit café near Lexington & 48th.'

Small. Simple. Controlled.

Still, as I slip the phone back into my pocket, the faintest smile tugs at my mouth. For the first time in weeks, the day doesn't feel routine.
I'm already imagining her reaction when she sees me again.

And I know I will.