The city looked softer in the rain.
It hid the cracks in the pavement and washed the neon lights into something dreamy — as if the filth and secrets might slip down the drains if it just poured long enough.
Inside the small corner café, Adam Christabel wiped the counter for the third time, her mind somewhere else entirely. She liked rainy days — they meant fewer customers, more quiet. She could watch the world drift by in watercolors.
She didn't notice him at first.The bell above the door didn't chime — it never did when he didn't want it to.
One moment she was alone behind the counter. The next, she looked up — and he was there.
He stood just inside the door, rain dripping from his black coat, shoulders broad and still. His eyes — cold grey, sharp as broken glass — were fixed on her. Not the menu. Not the pastries in the display. Her.
For a heartbeat, Christabel couldn't breathe.
He wasn't handsome in the way boys she knew were handsome — not safe, not soft. He was beautiful the way winter is beautiful — quiet, clean, and deadly if you linger too long in its cold.
When he stepped closer, his boots made no sound on the old tile floor. He didn't look around. He didn't need to. It was like he'd already decided this room belonged to him because he was in it.
"Coffee?" she managed to say, her voice cracking the silence.
He tilted his head slightly — an almost curious gesture. He didn't smile.
"Black," he said. Even his voice was soft, but there was something wrong with it — not the sound, but the calm. The way calm can hide the knife in a man's pocket.
She scribbled on the cup, her hands a little too shaky. "Name?"
He watched her write like he was memorizing how her fingers moved.
"Santiago," he said. His eyes flicked to hers when she looked up. "Peter Marco."
Something in her chest fluttered. It shouldn't have.
"It's… a strong name," she said before she could stop herself.
His mouth curved — not a smile. More like an echo of amusement that didn't touch his eyes.
"It should be."
He handed her a crisp note — larger than what the coffee cost, by far. She tried to hand the change back, but his gloved hand closed lightly over hers, pushing it away.
"Keep it," Peter murmured. His fingers lingered — warm leather over her skin, gone in an instant. But she felt it even after he stepped away.
He didn't sit. He didn't wait for his coffee. He only watched her — standing by the window, half-lit by the storm outside.
And then, so quietly she nearly missed it, he spoke again.
"Christabel."
She froze. He shouldn't have known her name — she hadn't told him.
Her eyes flicked up, but he was already turning away — coat swirling at his ankles as he slipped back into the rain without another word.
When the door finally chimed, she stood there, heart thundering, her name echoing in her ears.
Outside, the rain fell harder — washing the street clean, but not her memory of those grey eyes.