The rain was merciless that evening, falling in heavy sheets that blurred the city lights into trembling streaks of gold and silver. Inside the quiet corner café, the warmth of coffee and the faint scent of cinnamon wrapped around Layla like a fragile shield from the storm outside.
Her notebook lay open in front of her, its pages filled with messy handwriting and little sketches she drew whenever words weren't enough. She had been sitting there for over an hour, staring at the same unfinished sentence: "Love is…" The rest of the line remained empty, mocking her.
Love, she thought bitterly, was a broken promise.
Her fingers brushed the rim of her cup, tracing the circle again and again, trying to silence the ache inside her chest. Ever since that night—when her fiancé vanished from her life without explanation, leaving her with nothing but unanswered questions—she had been afraid to even write about love.
The bell above the café door chimed.
Layla looked up without thinking, and for a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
A man had entered, tall and impossibly composed despite the storm. Water slid off his black coat, but he moved as though the chaos of the rain had never touched him. His dark hair was slightly damp, strands falling across a face too sharp, too perfect, to belong to someone ordinary.
But it wasn't his appearance that unsettled her—it was the way he carried himself. Every step was deliberate, controlled, like someone who already knew the outcome of every moment before it happened.
And then his eyes found hers.
Grey. Cold. Unforgiving. Yet something flickered beneath them—something dangerous, something alive.
Layla's heart stumbled. She quickly dropped her gaze to her notebook, but it was too late. She could still feel his stare, heavy and unrelenting, like gravity itself had shifted toward her.
He walked closer, his footsteps slow, until he stood beside her table. His voice, when it came, was deep and smooth, carrying the weight of authority.
"Is this seat taken?"
Her throat felt dry. She shook her head. "No. It's free."
He sat across from her, and for the first time, Layla realized how close he was. The faint scent of his cologne—clean, sharp, with a hint of spice—wrapped around her senses. She forced herself to look up, and instantly regretted it.
Up close, his gaze was even more intense. It wasn't the gaze of a stranger; it was the gaze of someone who saw too much, who stripped away walls you didn't even know you had built.
"You write," he said, his eyes flicking to the open notebook between them. It wasn't a question.
Layla's fingers froze on the page. "Just… thoughts. They don't matter."
The corner of his mouth curved—not quite a smile, more like an echo of one. "Words always matter. Sometimes, they're the only truth left when everything else is a lie."
Something in his tone made her chest tighten. It wasn't just the words. It was the way he said them, as though he carried a thousand lies on his back and had long since stopped believing in anything else.
Before she could respond, he extended his hand across the table. "Adrian."
Layla hesitated, then placed her hand in his. The contact sent a jolt through her body, a spark so sharp it made her breath catch. She pulled back quickly, her cheeks warming, but the sensation lingered.
"Layla," she whispered.
He leaned back in his chair, studying her with unnerving calm. "Layla," he repeated, as though testing the name on his tongue. Then his gaze softened—not much, but enough to make her wonder if the storm outside had somehow stepped into the café and taken human form.
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It pulsed, alive, carrying a tension she couldn't explain.
And deep down, a warning whispered through her mind.
This man was dangerous.
But for the first time in months, Layla felt her heart beating agai
n. And that scared her more than the storm ever could.