The first time I saw him again, I wished I had taken the other door.
I'd spent the morning choking on case briefs, drowning in Latin phrases that made my head pound, and all I wanted was caffeine strong enough to keep me awake through the afternoon lecture. The "Courtroom Café" was packed, as usual. Everyone in law school lived on cheap coffee and day-old muffins. The place smelled like burnt beans and nerves.
I had one headphone in, music low, trying to block out the noise of students yelling over each other about exams and politics. My stomach turned just hearing them. The line crawled. I kept my head down, scrolling through notes on my phone.
Then I heard his laugh.
Sharp, careless, loud enough to cut through the noise.
I froze. That laugh had followed me out of the subway days ago, when he bumped into me and tried to charm his way out of being an arrogant stranger. I hadn't wanted to remember it, but my body did anyway—my skin prickled like I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't.
I looked up.
There he was.
Sitting in the back corner with his friends, legs sprawled out like the entire café belonged to him. A leather jacket thrown over the chair, expensive watch flashing under the dim lights. He leaned forward as he talked, hands animated, his grin wide and stupid.
I should have looked away. I should have kept walking. But my eyes stuck to him.
And then his eyes found mine.
For a second, I forgot how to breathe. He stopped mid-sentence, tilted his head, and smirked. Recognition flashed across his face. Like he'd been expecting me.
Shit.
I turned back toward the counter, heart racing. The line moved, but all I could feel was his gaze burning into my back. I tried to steady my hands, gripping the strap of my bag so tight my knuckles whitened.
Don't look again. Don't give him that.
"Next!" the barista called.
I ordered too fast, my voice flat. Large black coffee, nothing else. No room for cream. No patience for small talk. I just wanted out.
But fate—or maybe bad luck—had other plans.
As I stepped aside to wait, someone brushed against my arm. Too close. Too familiar.
"Black coffee? That's it?" His voice was warm and mocking, like he already knew the answer.
I turned. There he was, inches away. Taller than I remembered, smelling faintly of cologne and smoke. His hair was a mess in the kind of way that probably took effort.
"Are you following me now?" I snapped before I could stop myself.
He laughed again, softer this time. "Relax. I come here all the time."
I folded my arms. "Congratulations. You and half the law school."
His smile widened. "I didn't know you were one of them."
"One of who?"
"Future lawyers. Makes sense, though. You've got the glare down already."
I rolled my eyes. "You don't know anything about me."
"Not yet." He leaned against the counter, casual, like this was his stage and I was the only audience worth watching.
I hated how calm he was. How nothing ever seemed to rattle him. I hated how my chest tightened just being near him.
The barista slid my cup across the counter. I grabbed it like it was a lifeline. "Good. Let's keep it that way."
I turned toward the door. He followed.
"Hold on," he said, jogging a step to catch up. "Don't run off. I'm trying to be friendly."
"You don't need to try." I pushed through the crowded tables, weaving between backpacks and elbows. "I'm not interested."
"In coffee?"
"In whatever this is."
He grinned, undeterred. "You don't even know what this is yet."
I stopped so suddenly a student behind me almost slammed into my back. I spun around, glare sharp enough to cut. "Listen. You're loud. You're arrogant. And you probably think every girl in this city wants your attention. Newsflash—they don't. I definitely don't."
For the first time, his smile faltered. Just for a second. Then it returned, softer this time. "You're different."
"Stop."
"I mean it."
My throat tightened. He wasn't supposed to say things like that. Not in that voice, not with that look. I forced myself to scoff, to turn away, to keep moving.
I pushed out the door into the cold air. The city swallowed me instantly—sirens wailing somewhere down the block, subway rumbling beneath the pavement, people shouting into phones as they rushed past. I thought I'd lost him.
I hadn't.
"Wait!" he called, catching up again.
I cursed under my breath. "Do you ever quit?"
"Not when something interests me."
"Then find a hobby."
"Maybe I just did."
I stopped at the crosswalk, jaw tight. The light was red, but I wanted to step into traffic anyway, just to escape him. He stood beside me, hands shoved into his pockets, watching me with maddening patience.
Finally, I exhaled, slow and sharp. "Why are you doing this?"
"Because you're not like them," he said simply. "Everyone else here… they want to be seen. You? You try to disappear."
His words hit harder than I expected. I looked away, staring at the blinking red hand across the street.
"You don't know me," I muttered.
"Not yet," he repeated.
The light turned green. I walked fast, weaving through the crowd, determined not to give him another second of my attention. And yet… a part of me listened for his footsteps behind me.
He didn't follow this time.
When I finally glanced back, he was still standing on the curb, hands in his pockets, a strange look on his face. Not smug. Not mocking. Almost… curious.
I hated myself for wanting to know what that meant.
The rest of the day blurred. I sat through lectures, took notes, nodded at friends when they asked if I was okay. But my focus kept slipping. Every time I blinked, I saw his smirk. Heard his laugh. Felt his eyes on me.
I told myself it didn't matter. That he was just another spoiled boy with too much money and too much time. But the truth was harder to swallow.
He'd noticed me. And I hadn't hated it as much as I should have.
Later that night, back in my foster family's house, I replayed the scene like a movie I couldn't turn off. The café noise. His voice. The way he refused to back down.
My foster mother sat across the dining table, scrolling on her phone, barely acknowledging me. The clink of her wine glass filled the silence. I wanted to tell her something—anything—but the words stuck. She wouldn't care anyway.
I stared down at my untouched plate. I thought of him again, laughing with his friends like nothing in the world could touch him. And I wondered, just for a second, what it would feel like to live that way.
The next morning, I went back to the café. Not for him. For the coffee. That's what I told myself.
But when I pushed open the door and scanned the tables, my heart jumped before my brain could stop it.
He wasn't there.
And somehow, that disappointed me more than it should have.