The city looked different when Damien was beside her.
Maybe it was because he carried himself like he belonged everywhere -- shoulders relaxed, stride unhurried, eyes always taking in more than he let on. Maya tried to keep up, tugging at the hem of the pale dress he'd insisted she wear. She'd spent the last hour arguing she didn't need to be dressed like Isla to "practice," but Damien's answer had been final: "You need to feel it, not just fake it."
And now here she was, trailing him into a sunlit courtyard café that looked like it had been plucked from a postcard. Wrought-iron tables shaded by white umbrellas. Terracotta pots spilling geraniums. A string of fairy lights looping overhead even though it was still mid-afternoon.
"This place is..." she started.
"Exactly where we first met," Damien cut in, guiding her toward a corner table. His hand brushed the small of her back just long enough to steady her, but the warmth lingered even after he pulled away.
Maya arched a brow. "Really? Because I'm pretty sure you told me Milan."
"In the story, yes." He slid into the seat across from her. "But Milan is just a headline. This…" His eyes swept the café before landing back on her. "…this is where it comes alive."
She sat slowly, folding her hands to keep them from fidgeting. "You're making it sound like a fairytale."
"It's supposed to be," Damien said, casual but deliberate, like he was reminding her of a truth she'd forgotten.
The waiter appeared, setting down menus neither of them touched. Damien waved them off with a polite smile. "We'll order in a minute." Then his attention was back on Maya, steady and almost unnervingly calm.
"Alright," he said. "Scene one. You walk in. You've never been here before, but you pretend you have, because Isla never looks out of place. What's the first thing you notice?"
Maya glanced around, trying to absorb details quickly. "The tiles," she said finally, nodding toward the mosaic floor. "They're hand-painted. It makes the place feel old, but in a romantic way."
"Good," Damien said softly, leaning in like he was coaxing her closer with the weight of his voice. "And then you notice me. What do you see?"
Her heart tripped. "That you look… like you know you don't have to try."
For the first time, he didn't correct her answer. His lips curved, but it wasn't his usual smug smirk. It was quieter, slower -- something that tugged at the edges of her chest.
"Better," he murmured. "Now, conversation."
Maya straightened, pretending to tuck hair behind her ear. "Um… 'So, are you going to sit there looking mysterious, or are you actually going to introduce yourself?'"
That earned her a laugh, low and real. He shook his head. "That's not in the script."
"It should be," she said, emboldened by the sound. "Isla isn't boring. She teases you."
Damien's gaze lingered on her, like he was weighing whether to argue. Instead, he leaned back, stretching an arm over the back of his chair. "Fine. And I'd say… 'Why rush? The mystery is half the fun.'"
Her cheeks warmed, and she was suddenly glad for the shade of the umbrella. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"It's practice," he said, though the glint in his eyes suggested otherwise.
They ordered -- espresso for him, lemonade for her, because she was too flustered to attempt anything more sophisticated. When the drinks arrived, Damien lifted his cup but didn't sip, watching her instead.
"You're not holding yourself like Isla," he said.
Maya bristled. "I'm sitting. What more do you want?"
"You're slouching," he countered. "Isla doesn't slouch. She leans in. She makes people feel like they're the only one worth her time."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It's effortless when it's real." His words landed heavier than she expected, and for a moment neither of them moved.
Maya shifted, leaning forward just enough to meet his gaze across the table. "Like this?"
Something flickered in his expression -- approval, yes, but also something else. Something quieter, sharper. He set his cup down, untouched again. "Better," he said softly.
They slipped into rhythm after that, playing at banter that slowly stopped feeling like practice. She teased him about being a terrible tour guide ("You picked a café that doesn't even serve cake?"). He retorted that she was too predictable ("You'd order chocolate mousse at every restaurant if you could."). At one point, she laughed so hard she almost spilled her drink, and Damien caught the glass before it tipped, his fingers brushing hers.
The touch was brief. Barely there. But it stole her breath.
"Careful," he said quietly.
She swallowed, trying to find her voice. "That felt… unscripted."
"It was." His eyes didn't leave hers.
The café faded for a moment -- the hum of conversation, the clink of cutlery, even the summer breeze stirring the leaves overhead. All she could hear was the pulse in her ears, steady and fast.
Damien leaned back finally, breaking the spell. "Scene two," he said, his tone almost too casual. "Dinner in Rome. We'll save that for another night."
"Another night?" she echoed, heart still racing.
His smile was small, unreadable. "Field practice takes more than one lesson."
They paid the bill and stepped out into the street, where the late sun slanted golden between the buildings. The air smelled faintly of bread and coffee, the kind of scent that made everything feel softer, slower.
Maya hugged her arms loosely as they walked side by side. Damien's stride was unhurried, almost measured, like he knew she needed the extra seconds to keep up with her own thoughts.
"You really planned all this?" she asked, eyes sliding toward him.
He kept his gaze ahead. "Of course."
"Why do I feel like I'm the only one actually rehearsing?"
His lips quirked. "Because you are."
"That's unfair."
"Life's unfair," he replied, but his tone wasn't biting. It was warm, almost teasing.
They paused outside a shop window where crystal perfume bottles caught the light. Maya pressed her face closer to the glass. "These look expensive."
"They are."
"Would Isla buy one?"
"She'd let me buy one for her," Damien said without hesitation.
Maya turned to him, arching a brow. "And would you?"
He looked down at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "Depends if she asked."
She blinked, caught between a laugh and a shiver. "Smooth."
"True," he said, and kept walking.
They reached a small square where a fountain burbled in the center, surrounded by benches. Damien sat first, stretching out an arm along the backrest, leaving space for her to join. Maya hesitated before lowering herself beside him, trying to act casual though her pulse betrayed her.
"This is scene three," he said. "The in-between. The moment before the next act."
Maya tilted her head. "You mean small talk?"
He smirked. "The kind that doesn't feel small."
She bit her lip, then asked, "So… what does Damien Cross talk about when it's not scripted?"
He considered her for a moment, then said simply, "Whatever makes her stay."
Her chest tightened. She forced a laugh. "You really don't break character, do you?"
"Who says I'm in one?"
She looked away quickly, watching the fountain catch the light. The square was quiet, only a handful of people passing through, the city hushed in the late-afternoon lull. But beside her, Damien radiated a calm she couldn't imitate, a calm that both steadied and unsettled her.
They sat like that for several minutes, silence stretching but never turning awkward. Maya found herself leaning ever so slightly toward him, as if pulled by something invisible.
Finally, Damien spoke. "Scene four. The part no one expects."
Her breath caught. "And what's that?"
He turned his head slowly, his gaze steady, unreadable yet charged. "The pause. The moment that feels like it could tip either way."
Maya's fingers curled against her lap. Her heart beat too fast, too loud. "And which way does it tip?"
Damien's lips curved -- not a smile, not quite. "That depends on you."
The words lingered between them, heavier than the evening air. She couldn't look away, couldn't breathe properly, caught in the fragile suspense of something that wasn't quite practice anymore.
And though he said nothing more, his arm still rested along the back of the bench, close enough that if she leaned just a little farther, her shoulder would brush his.
She didn't. Not yet.
But the yearning hung there, soft and sharp, like a promise waiting to unfold.