The Way He Looks at Me
The late afternoon sun spilled across the café's large windows, bathing everything in a warm amber glow. Outside, the city bustled with life—people rushing past with coffee cups, taxis honking impatiently, the hum of normalcy. Inside, however, my world had narrowed down to a single point: Adrian Cole, sitting across from me.
His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the kind of forearms that made my thoughts scatter. The top button of his shirt was undone, his tie loose, as though he'd just walked out of an important meeting and decided to waste his precious time on… me.
I was halfway through stirring my latte when I realized I'd been staring. My cheeks heated, and I quickly glanced down, hoping he hadn't noticed.
Of course, he had.
"You're distracted," he said, his voice low and smooth. "Is it me?"
I almost choked. "No—I mean, yes—well, not distracted distracted. I was just… thinking."
"About?" His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.
I hesitated. "About… how you probably have better things to do than sit here with me."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Elena, if I wanted to be anywhere else right now, I would be. But I'm exactly where I want to be."
And there it was again—that quiet intensity that seemed to melt through every defense I had. My fingers tightened around my cup, desperately holding on to something solid.
I forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "You're saying that now because the coffee is good."
"Coffee's decent," he replied, eyes never leaving mine. "But you… are better."
The air between us felt charged. I could feel the pulse in my throat quicken.
---
The Touch That Lingers
We ended up talking for nearly an hour—about his travels, my little apartment with the leaky faucet, and even the ridiculous viral videos I liked to watch when I couldn't sleep. He listened, really listened, in a way that made me feel seen.
When it was time to leave, he insisted on walking me out.
As we stepped onto the street, the cool evening breeze swept past us, carrying the faint scent of blooming jasmine from somewhere nearby. My hair blew into my face, and before I could tuck it away, he reached out.
His fingers brushed my cheek, gentle but deliberate, as he moved a strand of hair behind my ear. The touch lingered a second longer than necessary.
"Better," he murmured.
I froze, unable to look away from him. His gaze wasn't hurried or casual—it was deliberate, searching, as though he was memorizing the way I looked under the streetlight.
I cleared my throat. "You do realize we've only known each other for… what, three days?"
He tilted his head slightly. "Some things don't require time to be certain, Elena."
---
An Unexpected Invitation
We walked in silence for a few blocks, my mind still reeling from that last statement. When we reached the corner near my apartment, I stopped. "This is me."
He glanced at the modest brick building, then back at me. "Dinner. Tomorrow."
It wasn't a question.
I blinked. "You're… asking me out?"
He smiled faintly. "I don't ask for what I want, Elena. I make it happen."
"And what if I say no?"
"Then I'll wait until you say yes," he replied simply.
For reasons I couldn't explain, my lips curved into a smile. "Fine. Dinner. But I'm picking the place."
He arched a brow. "Deal."
---
The Restless Night
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, my phone resting beside me. My heart felt like it was playing a constant drumbeat, and every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face—those sharp features, the way his eyes softened when he looked at me.
I told myself I was just intrigued, maybe even flattered. But deep down, I knew it was more dangerous than that.
Some part of me was already falling.
---
The Dinner
The next evening, I chose a small Italian restaurant two blocks from my apartment. It wasn't fancy, but it was warm and inviting, with twinkling fairy lights strung across the ceiling. I arrived first, nervously twisting my bracelet while waiting.
Then he walked in.
The room seemed to still for a moment. He was in a dark charcoal suit this time, perfectly tailored, with the faintest hint of cologne that made my pulse skip. As his eyes found mine, a slow, devastating smile spread across his lips.
"You clean up well," he said, taking his seat.
"I could say the same about you," I replied, trying to sound casual.
Dinner was… perfect. We laughed over pasta, shared dessert without him even asking, and he told me stories about his childhood that no one else knew. At one point, he reached across the table and took my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my knuckles.
"Elena," he said quietly, "I want you to know something."
My breath caught. "What?"
"I don't play games. When I want someone… I don't let go."
---
By the time we stepped outside, the night air was crisp, the streets quieter now. He walked me home, his hand brushing mine with every step until, finally, he took it completely.
When we reached my building, I hesitated, not ready to end the night.
He must have felt it too, because he leaned in—slowly, giving me time to pull away if I wanted.
I didn't.
His lips met mine in a kiss that was warm, unhurried, and yet impossibly intense. It was the kind of kiss that left you dizzy, the kind that whispered promises you didn't yet understand.
When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine. "Goodnight, Elena."
I watched him walk away, my heart racing, my world tilting—and I knew, without a doubt, that nothing would be the same again.