Two days passed before Ava saw him again.
It was a quiet Thursday afternoon, and she had wandered into Holloway's Antique Books — her favorite place to disappear from the noise of the city. The shop smelled faintly of old paper and dust, the kind of scent that always made her feel safe.
She was in the poetry section, running her fingers over worn leather spines, when the little bell over the door rang. She didn't look up at first. But then she heard slow, deliberate footsteps moving down the aisle. Something about their rhythm made her glance up.
It was him.
Rain clung to the shoulders of his black coat, his hair slightly damp. He moved with quiet confidence, as though the world would always make space for him. He stopped just a few feet away, reaching for the same book she was about to pick up — an old edition of Byron's works.
"You have good taste," he said. His voice was low, steady, and it sent a strange shiver down her spine.
"I could say the same to you," she replied, watching him carefully.
He studied her for a moment, then extended his hand — gloved in black leather. "Damien Vale."
She hesitated, then shook it. "Ava Mercer."
He smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "A name like that doesn't belong in a place like this," he said, his tone unreadable.
Before she could ask what he meant, the shopkeeper called him over to the counter. He paid for a book she hadn't seen him pick up, then walked out.
When she stepped outside a few minutes later, he was leaning casually against a lamppost across the street. His eyes found hers instantly, as though he had been waiting.