The first time I met him, I didn't realize the world had just tilted slightly off its axis. That's usually how life announces itself when something extraordinary is about to happen—through the ordinary.
I was late, of course. Late for my third coffee of the morning, late for work at The Cozy Nook Café, and late in noticing that the man sitting in my favorite corner seat had something strange about him. His hair was the color of sunlight falling on caramel, and his eyes—honestly, I don't think I'd ever seen eyes that green in real life, only in cheesy romance posters at the mall. He smiled at me, just once, and something in my chest fluttered like it was auditioning for a musical.
I shook my head and muttered under my breath. "Stop being dramatic, Lila."
I had just poured myself into the café, balancing a latte, a blueberry muffin, and my sanity, when he stood. He was tall—borderline suspiciously tall—and carried himself like someone who knew the exact effect he had on everyone in the room. And, naturally, he walked straight to my counter.
"Hi," he said. His voice was soft, warm, and oddly… melodic. Like he had been practicing "charming" in a mirror since birth.
"Hi?" I echoed, unsure if he was talking to me or to the muffin display.
"I—I'm looking for someone," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Someone… very special. Have you seen them?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Depends. Are they human?"
He blinked, genuinely confused. "Yes, I think so. Human, not a unicorn or a time traveler?"
I laughed, the first real laugh of the week. "Nope. Just humans here. Mostly me complaining about caffeine."
He smiled again. Dangerous, distracting, I-will-make-you-drop-your-muffin kind of smile.
"Good," he said. "Because I… might need your help finding them."
And that was how it started. A normal Tuesday, turned slightly magical, with a boy who acted like he'd stepped out of a mythology class.
I thought about him all day. His name, which he finally told me after I pried it out of him over my own stubborn curiosity, was Elior. It sounded like someone plucked it straight from a fantasy novel. He didn't give a last name, just "Elior," like a secret waiting to be discovered.
The café buzzed around me as usual. Regulars sipped cappuccinos while arguing about the ethics of oat milk. I scribbled orders on my notepad, my mind wandering to Elior and that impossible sparkle in his eyes. And then he did something completely unreasonable. He winked.
I don't think people wink at you in real life unless they're hiding a secret. Or they're an ancient deity sent to meddle in your love life.
That evening, I tried to shake it off. Really, I did. I dumped my latte on the counter like it was the source of all my problems and muttered to my cat, Marble, who gave me the judgmental side-eye only cats can perfect.
"You can't actually be Cupid, Elior," I said aloud, pacing my tiny apartment. "It's impossible. Totally, completely, ridiculously impossible."
Marble flicked her tail. I swear she rolled her eyes.
And yet… the evidence was mounting. Little things, mostly coincidences, but enough to make me question reality:
He appeared exactly when people around me needed love advice—even when he hadn't known them before.
He somehow made a bouquet of daisies appear out of thin air (I swear he didn't just buy them; I watched him conjure them).
And, most damning of all, he had a quiver. Yes, a literal quiver. With golden-tipped arrows.
That's when I realized I was not just imagining things.
I was dating a celestial disaster waiting to happen.
The next day, he returned. This time, armed with a notebook and a pen, looking like a human detective who had just been promoted to "mystical cupid."
"Morning, Lila," he said, bowing slightly, like the most ridiculous rom-com hero in the world. "I've been… thinking."
"Oh, no," I said immediately, because thinking usually meant trouble when it came to Elior.
"I might be here to… help you," he continued, ignoring my tone. "With love. Yours."
I almost dropped a tray.
"Excuse me?"
"I—uh—mean, sometimes humans struggle with love. And I… assist. Professionally." He tilted his head. "Well, semi-professionally."
My brain short-circuited. "Assist? Like… therapy?"
"More like…" He reached into his coat and, without hesitation, pulled out a tiny, glowing arrow. "Cupid."
I blinked. Then blinked again. Then probably said something incoherent, like, "You're—"
"Yes," he said, nodding proudly. "I am Cupid. Well, one of them. And you, Lila, are—" He paused dramatically—"my assignment."
"Assignment?" I whispered, clutching a muffin as if it were a shield.
"Yes. You. Love needs guidance, and… you're in need of guidance."
I stared at him. He stared back. The café noise seemed to vanish, leaving only me, him, and the dangerous certainty that my life was about to get really weird.
Over the next week, Elior was relentless. He showed up at the library when I went to study, at the grocery store when I went to pick up almond milk, and even at the park when I tried to walk Marble for fresh air.
He wasn't obnoxious. He was… persistent. Endearingly persistent. Sometimes he made mistakes, like pointing his arrow at the wrong couple and causing a stranger to suddenly declare undying love for someone who had just asked for directions. But mostly, he was careful. Caring. And, if I'm being honest, impossible to resist.
I started to notice other things, too:
He had a habit of humming when he was nervous.
He always remembered my coffee order—even the way I liked the foam to swirl.
And he had a laugh that could literally melt your mood from "grumpy Monday" to "maybe magic exists."
I wanted to be annoyed. I tried. But I couldn't.
Then came the incident. The defining moment where I realized that life with Elior would never be normal.
It was a Friday evening. The café was emptying, the sun spilling orange and pink across the street, and I was stacking the last of the clean cups. Elior appeared from nowhere (again, because he had a habit of teleporting, apparently) and plopped a small box on the counter.
"What's this?" I asked, suspiciously.
He grinned. "Open it."
Inside was a single, glowing arrow. Not a weapon. Not dangerous. Just… beautiful.
"I—uh… what is it?"
"A promise," he said simply. "That I'll try… to do this—love—without breaking your heart. Unless… you want me to break it?"
I wanted to tell him to stop being dramatic. To stop looking at me like I was the most precious thing in the universe. But I didn't.
I smiled. And for the first time, I realized I didn't want him to stop.
By the end of the week, I was falling. Not just for the idea of him, not for the magic, but for him—the boy with sunlight hair, impossible green eyes, and a quiver full of arrows. Falling, despite logic, despite warnings, despite the very real danger of trusting a literal Cupid.
And somewhere deep inside, I knew one thing: This was only the beginning.
To Be Continued…