The rain had slowed to a drizzle the next morning, but Amara's mood hadn't improved. She sat at her favorite café near campus, fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee, willing the warmth to chase away the memory of last night's humiliating collision.
The audacity of that man still burned her. "Maybe I do own the sidewalk."Who even said something like that?
She shook her head, forcing herself to focus on her sketches. Her notebook—thankfully rescued from the puddle—was open, pencil gliding across the page. For Amara, art wasn't just an escape. It was a lifeline.
She was so absorbed she didn't notice the hush that swept over the café until a shadow fell across her table.
"Looks like we meet again."
Her pencil froze. That voice. Smooth, self-assured. Her stomach sank. Slowly, she lifted her gaze—and there he was.
The stranger from last night.The sidewalk king.And unfortunately, even more annoyingly gorgeous in daylight.
He wasn't in a suit today. Instead, a dark sweater clung to him like it had been crafted to highlight every strong line of his frame. His hair, still slightly damp from the drizzle, looked unfairly perfect.
Amara blinked, certain her morning caffeine hadn't kicked in yet. "You?!"
His lips curved into a smirk. "Glad to see you remember me."
"As if forgetting you was an option," she muttered, then instantly regretted it when his smile deepened.
He pulled out the chair opposite her without asking, sitting down like he belonged there.
"Excuse me, what do you think you're—"
"Coffee." He gestured toward the barista. "Black. Strong." Then he turned back to her, eyes gleaming. "Now… what were you sketching?"
She slammed her notebook shut, hugging it protectively to her chest. "That's none of your business."
"Ah," he leaned back, studying her with lazy amusement, "an artist with secrets."
Amara narrowed her eyes. "And you're a stranger who doesn't understand boundaries."
"Stranger?" He tapped his chest lightly. "Adrian."
She blinked. "…What?"
"My name. Adrian. Now I'm not a stranger anymore." His grin was pure arrogance.
She hated that her heart skipped at the sound of his name. Adrian. Strong. Smooth. Too fitting for the kind of man who could make the air around him feel heavier, charged.
"Well, Adrian," she said crisply, "I didn't ask for company."
"And yet," he tilted his head, "here I am."
Something in his tone—half playful, half serious—made her pulse quicken. She wanted to push him away, to roll her eyes and dismiss him. But part of her, a part she refused to admit existed, was curious. Drawn.
As the barista set his coffee down, Adrian leaned forward, elbows on the table. His gaze was steady, unsettling. "You know… I don't usually chase after people I bump into on rainy nights."
Amara arched a brow. "And yet…"
"And yet," he echoed with a smile, "here I am."
Her breath caught before she forced a scoff. "Flattery won't work on me."
"Who said I was flattering you?" His voice dipped lower, intimate. "Maybe I'm just intrigued."
Her cheeks warmed. She hated how he did that—how a few words could unravel her composure. She pushed her chair back abruptly, standing.
"Enjoy your coffee, Adrian."
Before he could reply, she walked out into the drizzle, heart hammering.
She told herself she was done with him. That she'd never see him again.But destiny had already decided—Adrian wasn't a man who appeared just once in someone's story.
He was the kind who rewrote it.