The dream began in a café called Els Quatre Gats. Of course, not the legendary haunt where Picasso once lingered, but a modest little place hidden deep in the winding alleys of the Gothic Quarter. The name was likely borrowed, a fragile attempt to borrow a little of that old artistic glamour.
That day, the sunlight was kind—streaming through the stained-glass windows, scattering in fractured colors across the dark wooden floor. The air was heavy with the bittersweet perfume of espresso, laced with the buttery warmth of fresh croissants.
There weren't many people in Els Quatre Gats that afternoon. I was tucked behind the counter, secretly battling with a sketch I couldn't get right, my brow drawn tight in frustration—probably tighter than his ever was.
"Need some help?"
The voice came from nowhere—low, rough-edged, and threaded with an intimacy that sent a ripple through me before I even looked up.
I startled, jerking my head up—only to crash straight into those glacial blue eyes. It was him. The blond man. Somehow, without me noticing, he had crossed the room and now stood at the counter, his gaze falling squarely on my pitiful excuse for a sketch.
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I fumbled, nearly knocking over a cup as I tried to cover the page with a stray book."It's nothing! Just… doodling," I stammered, wishing desperately for the floor to swallow me whole.
His eyes lingered on my face for a fleeting second before he leaned in slightly, one finger brushing the corner of my sketchpad."The perspective here," he murmured, his voice calm and unhurried. "It doesn't quite line up with the window's light. The shadows fall at the wrong angle."
I froze, caught off guard. His tone carried no mockery, no arrogance—just a quiet certainty, as if he were pointing out something as ordinary as an empty coffee cup.
"You… you draw too?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, and the second they left my mouth I regretted it. I sounded like some clueless amateur.
"A little," he said quietly, his gaze flicking back to my sketch. "The composition is interesting. The technique—less so."
If anyone else had said that, I probably would've bristled. But coming from him, with those intent, unguarded eyes, the words felt different. Instead of offense, a strange thrill sparked in me—like recognizing a kindred spirit.
"I study art history," I blurted, trying to salvage some dignity. "The practical side isn't… my strength."
He gave the faintest nod, not unkind, then gestured toward the menu. "A black coffee, please."
"Oh—of course!" I spun toward the espresso machine, my pulse racing, though I couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment or from the brief, magnetic pull of our exchange.
As the coffee brewed, I stole a glance at him over my shoulder. He leaned casually against the counter, watching the light shift in the narrow alley outside. His profile was all sharp lines and cool restraint, the kind of beauty that made it hard to breathe. Yet beneath it, I noticed the faint shadows under his eyes, a trace of fatigue that softened his distance, made him seem almost… fragile. Fragile in a way that made me ache to step closer.
I handed him the coffee. As he took it, his fingers brushed against the back of my hand—cool to the touch.
"Thank you." He paid, paused, and let his gaze fall once more on my abandoned sketch."Observe more. Practice more. You'll get there."
Then, as if nothing had happened, he carried his cup back to the corner by the window, opened his sketchbook, and disappeared into its pages again. The tiny moment between us was already swallowed up by silence—at least for him.
I, however, remained frozen in place, my heart rippling as though someone had dropped a pebble into it. The spot on my hand where his skin had touched still tingled with the faintest trace of cold.
Did he just… encourage me? I could hardly believe it. Megan would have laughed and said, See? I told you. These brooding artists know exactly how to undo you without even trying.
But I wasn't thinking about warnings or restraint. What filled me in that moment was something far simpler, far warmer—the quiet joy of being seen. Of having someone like him, someone whose sketches carried a professional's certainty, acknowledge that there was at least an idea worth noticing in my clumsy lines.
From then on, I found myself watching him. Almost without realizing it.
He came nearly every afternoon at the same time, always ordering a black coffee, always retreating to his spot by the window. Sometimes he sketched, sometimes he simply stared out at the alleyway, lost in thoughts I could never reach. He spoke to no one—no one but me. And even then, our conversations never moved beyond an order, a thank you.
Yet somehow, that was enough to make him feel closer than anyone else in the room.
I always managed to find the smallest excuses to talk to him.
"How's the roast today? Different beans.""Looks like it might rain outside.""Is that a sketch of the Sagrada Família? The angle's unusual."
His answers were never more than necessary—a nod, a clipped word, sometimes just a sound of acknowledgment. But I didn't mind. Somehow I could tell he didn't dislike my interruptions.
Once, emboldened by a quiet courage, I asked if I could see his sketch. For a moment he hesitated, silent long enough for me to think I'd pushed too far. And then—he slid the notebook across the table toward me.
The lines stunned me. The precision of his architectural sketches, the flow of his strokes—they were breathtaking, alive with a kind of restrained power. There was nothing "casual" about them.
"You're incredible," I breathed. "Did you study architecture?"
He pulled the sketchbook back, his eyes flickering—guarded, unreadable. "I used to… a little."
Another vague answer. Whenever it came to his past, he was a closed door. But instead of deterring me, it only deepened his allure. In my mind, I had already painted him as the perfect portrait: a gifted soul bruised by reality, still clinging stubbornly to his art.
It was everything I had ever imagined an artist to be—romantic, tragic, beautiful.
Until the night of the robbery.
It was late when I left work that night, my arms weighed down by a stack of heavy art books as I threaded through the Gothic Quarter's maze of narrow streets. The sky had already sunk into darkness, the streetlamps casting only a dim, uncertain glow.
I had just turned a corner when a man lunged out of the shadows. In one brutal motion, he yanked the canvas bag from my arms and tried to bolt.
A startled cry tore from my throat. Instinctively, I clung to the strap with both hands, refusing to let go. He cursed, shoving me hard. I stumbled backward, icy dread flooding my chest. I was about to hit the ground—
—when a strong arm caught me, steady and unyielding.
At the same time, a guttural cry of pain rang out, followed by the heavy thud of something hitting the cobblestones.
My heart slammed against my ribs as I twisted around.
It was Liam.
I had no idea where he'd come from, but there he was—one arm locked firmly around me, the other gripping the thief's wrist with such force that the man's face contorted in agony. My bag slipped free and fell to the ground.
The whole thing happened so fast I could hardly breathe.
"Leave." Liam's voice was like ice, sharper than I had ever heard it. He didn't even glance at the man, not really. His glacial eyes swept over me first, scanning to make sure I was unharmed, before pinning the thief with a stare so cutting it could have drawn blood.
The man wrenched free, terror overtaking fury. He stumbled backward and fled down the alley, leaving my belongings scattered across the stones, too shaken to even think of retrieving them.
And then it was just the two of us. Alone in the alley, surrounded by the mess of fallen books and my hammering heartbeat.
My legs felt like jelly—I could hardly stand, and all I had was his steady support."Th…thank you…" My voice trembled.
He released me, stepping back half a pace, brow furrowed."Don't walk through alleys like this alone at night."
"I… I know, I'm sorry." Still shaken, I bent down to gather my scattered things. He crouched beside me without a word.
His movements were fast, precise. Fingers nimbly corralling the fallen books and art supplies. When he picked up my sketchbook, he paused for a fraction of a second. The page was open to a drawing I had made of him—seated by the café window, caught in the soft light, side-profile perfect.
Heat rushed to my cheeks once more.
He closed the book and handed it back to me. His face remained impassive, but there was a subtle softness in his eyes—just enough to make me falter."You've improved since the last time," he said simply.
Just those few words, and somehow, all the lingering fear, the embarrassment, melted away. He didn't ask why I had drawn him.
When he handed me the recovered bag, he added,"Where do you live? I'll walk you home."
I gave him my apartment address—it wasn't far. He nodded and walked naturally on my outer side, keeping about a step between us. We didn't speak a word the entire way.
It wasn't until we reached the building that I summoned the courage to ask,"How did you just happen to be there?"
He paused for a moment. "Just… nearby. Doing some fieldwork." He gave a small shake of the old Leica camera he'd been holding.
It made perfect sense. A painter, a photographer, wandering the atmospheric streets of the Gothic Quarter at dusk—it was completely plausible.
"Thank you so much," I said earnestly. "I really don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been there."
"Be careful next time." He nodded, acknowledging my gratitude, then turned and disappeared quickly into the night.
I stood at the foot of the building, watching him go, feeling as though something inside me had been filled. The fear that had gripped me earlier had vanished, replaced by a strange, complex mix of relief, gratitude, and something far stronger—an undeniable attraction.
He had saved me. Appeared just in time, moved with effortless precision (though I hadn't seen the details, the result was undeniable). He looked cold on the outside, yet cared enough to see me safely home.
When Megan heard the story, she nearly freaked out."Hero saves the damsel! Could this plot be any more cliché? But… I have to admit, points for style. Still—don't you think his timing was a little too perfect?"
I immediately retorted,"The Gothic Quarter isn't that big. He was nearby for fieldwork—heard a commotion, came to check. Isn't that normal? Are you seriously suggesting he's a stalker?"
I was completely wrapped in my "he's amazing" filter, automatically ignoring any illogical inconsistencies.
Little did I know then that the world rarely works in coincidences. His appearance may never have been accidental at all.
And that warmth beneath his cold exterior—what I thought was tenderness—might have been just the tip of a colossal iceberg. Beneath the surface lay a darkness capable of consuming everything, including himself, and a fate he could never escape.
Yet in that moment, I looked up at the deep blue Barcelona sky and all I felt was sweetness, as if even the air around me had been laced with it.
I thought I had met a hero—mysterious, perhaps, but with a kind heart.I thought our story would unfold like any other romance novel, warm and unhurried, flowing gently forward.
The "robbery incident" had been a catalyst, shattering the thin, almost imperceptible barrier that existed between Liam and me.
He was still quiet, still arrived at Els Quatre Gats every afternoon, ordered his black coffee, and settled into his usual corner. But something had subtly shifted.
I found myself instinctively preparing his coffee just a little earlier, ready to hand it to him the moment he arrived. Sometimes, I slipped in a single sugar cube—just enough to take the edge off the bitterness. I had noticed him occasionally frown ever so slightly at the harsh taste, though he had never asked for sugar.
The first time I did it, he accepted the cup, took a sip, and paused for a fraction of a second. Then his glacial blue eyes lifted to meet mine. My heart skipped a beat; I thought I had overstepped.
But he said nothing. Simply continued drinking the faintly sweetened black coffee.
The next day, I did the same, and he accepted it again.
It became our quiet little secret—a subtle warmth that rippled gently through my chest, unnoticed by anyone else, yet entirely ours.
He began to let me take the empty seat across from him, during those rare moments when he wasn't absorbed in his work (though I suspected he was always busy—I just didn't know with what). I would pull out my clumsy sketches for his critique, or sneak glances at the astonishing new drawings in his sketchbook.
His words remained few, but each piece of advice hit the mark with precision:"Be bolder with these lines.""The contrast here is weak—try darkening these hatch marks.""Your observation is sharp, but your hand can't keep up. Practice more."
Praise from him was as scarce as winter rain in Barcelona, yet each tiny acknowledgment could make my entire day.
I learned that he lived off selling his paintings and taking small commercial illustration jobs—a modest but free existence, or at least that's how he described it. It fit perfectly with the image I had of him: a struggling genius, quietly enduring the world.
I told him I was studying art history at the academy, dreaming of one day becoming an independent curator. He listened attentively, occasionally asking a question or two that showed he wasn't entirely ignorant of the field.
Our conversations gradually drifted beyond art. I would complain to him about difficult professors, gripe about the cafeteria's endlessly repetitive seafood paella, or share the small joys of finding old books at the flea market. He mostly listened, occasionally letting the faintest hint of a smile tug at the corners of his lips—like sunlight skimming across ice. Brief, fleeting, but enough to make my heart race.
He also, very rarely, shared fragments of his past. He chose vague, melancholy words—"Some things happened at home before," "I left a place I didn't want to stay," "I've been alone for a long time." These shards painted a picture of a wounded, solitary soul, distanced from his past, struggling quietly—a portrait that explained both his melancholy and his mystery, while stirring every ounce of my sympathy and protective instinct.
I never pressed him. I felt it would be cruel. I was willing to wait, hoping that one day he would open up to me on his own.
Megan, naturally, was both curious and concerned about my slow-moving romance."Still as mysterious as ever? You don't even know where he lives?"
"Artists need their personal space," I defended him. "He treats me well—that's enough."
"He treats you well? How? By making you a cup of coffee or giving a few drawing tips?" Megan rolled her eyes. "Alison, I'm not trying to be a downer, but he… he seems unreal. Like a cloud of mist you can't quite catch."
"That's because you don't really know him," I said firmly. Yet a tiny, almost imperceptible unease stirred in me. I quickly brushed it aside. People in love always choose to see only what they want to see.
Spring had arrived in Barcelona, and the air was filled with the scent of flowers and the promise of new beginnings. Somehow, our relationship seemed to be warming in the same gentle breeze.
He agreed to come with me to the weekend market at Santa Caterina, weaving through the colorful stalls of fruits and piles of cured ham. I chattered excitedly, while he followed quietly beside me, occasionally raising his camera to capture small, intriguing moments—the bustling vendors, a dozing cat, a shaft of sunlight slicing through the gaps in the canopy. His lens seemed drawn to the ordinary details of life, the little moments that felt alive.
One day, at a stall selling old curiosities, I spotted a brass compass, weathered but intricately engraved, its needle trembling toward the south. I held it in my hands, enchanted.
"Do you like it?" he asked.
"Yes… it feels special," I nodded, glancing at the price tag. It was a bit too expensive, and reluctantly, I put it back.
Liam said nothing.
A few days later, after work, he was waiting outside the café. The setting sun haloed his blond hair with a warm glow, softening the sharp angles of his usual austere features.
"For you." He handed me a small paper box.
Puzzled, I opened it—and there was the brass compass. Carefully polished, it gleamed with a quiet warmth.
"This… this is too much!" I looked up at him in surprise.
"Just a little thing," he said casually, as if handing me a piece of candy. "I thought you'd like it."
At that moment, something inside me crumbled, only to be swiftly replaced by an even more overwhelming surge of emotion. He wasn't a man given to words—sometimes clumsy, even awkward—but his thoughtfulness, his memory of the small details, touched me far more than any declaration of love ever could.
I clutched the compass, still warm from his hands, my nose tingling, my eyes shining as I looked at him."Thank you, Liam. I really… really like it."
He met my gaze, and in those icy blue eyes, I thought I saw something shifting—a depth I hadn't noticed before. More than his usual coldness or melancholy, there was a flicker of… struggle, of pain.
But just as quickly as it appeared, it was gone. I wondered if I had imagined it. His eyes moved away, and all I got was a soft, almost imperceptible, "Hmm."
After that, I carried the compass with me everywhere. It became the first tangible link between us, a small token that held more meaning than either of us would openly admit. Every time I watched the trembling needle, I felt it wasn't pointing south—it was pointing to Liam, to that seemingly cold heart I was trying to reach.
I believed then that our story, like the compass, might stumble and wobble along the way, but in the end, it would guide us toward happiness.
I never imagined that this little compass, like everything else he would later give me, might not have been given solely out of love. Perhaps it was the quiet, final tenderness of someone who knew he could never truly offer a future.
I certainly never expected that the same icy blue eyes, which had just hinted at warmth, would one day grow colder and more merciless than ever, delivering words so sharp they would shatter every possibility of happiness between us.
Far off, the construction noises from the Sagrada Família sounded almost like a tolling bell, a deep, ominous echo presaging a turning point in fate, resonating across the Barcelona sky.
But at that moment, all I held was the tiny compass, my heart full of almost reverent joy and hope—completely unaware of the storm that lay ahead.