Chapter 6
Scarlett stood in front of the mirror, holding up her third outfit. A frustrated sigh escaped her.
"Why is it harder to dress for coffee than a client pitch?"
Naomi, sprawled on Scarlett's bed with a cup of tea, smirked. "Because one might land a million-dollar contract. The other could end in emotional chaos… or a second date."
Scarlett rolled her eyes. "Helpful."
"Seriously—wear the green sweater with your dark jeans. It says 'I didn't try too hard' but also 'I look good without effort.'"
Scarlett studied the sweater. "You think?"
"I know. Trust me. I've seen you panic over shoes and still make it work. This guy won't know what hit him."
She slipped into the sweater. It felt right—comfortable, soft. Not flashy, not plain. Just her.
Jace was already at Brew District Café, seated at a small table by the window. He sipped black coffee, tapping his fingers against the mug, eyes flicking toward the door every time it opened.
Then he saw her.
Scarlett walked in, a soft breeze curling behind her. Her green sweater caught the light, and something in her expression made his chest tighten. She spotted him and waved, shy but certain. He stood as she approached, black jacket still on.
"You said you'd ditch the jacket," she teased, sliding into the chair across from him.
"I said no promises. Besides, it's part of the mystery."
She laughed. "Of course. The man, the myth, the jacket."
He smirked. "I'll make it up to you."
A waitress stopped by to take her order. Scarlett asked for a cappuccino and a blueberry scone. Once they were alone again, silence settled—not awkwardly, but quietly, the kind that fits two people just learning each other.
"So," Jace said, swirling his coffee, "how's the architect life today?"
"On pause," she replied. "Right now, I'm just here."
He nodded. "I like that."
The conversation drifted—work frustrations, favorite coffee blends, city parking disasters. Then, without warning, it shifted deeper.
"When I was overseas," Jace said, gripping his cup, "there were nights I couldn't sleep. Every sound felt like danger. Even back home, I double-checked locks. Made lists. Counted seconds. Felt like if I missed something, everything would fall apart again."
Scarlett didn't interrupt. She just listened, offering space without questions.
"That sounds exhausting," she said softly.
"It was. Sometimes still is."
She hesitated. "My dad left when I was fifteen. He said he'd be back after a job out west. Never came. After that, I stopped trusting things that seemed too good. Even myself."
He looked up, eyes meeting hers. "We're both a little dented."
"Cracked, not broken," she murmured.
He smiled faintly. "I like that."
Her phone buzzed. Naomi.
Naomi: So? Did he wear the jacket? Blink twice if it's a disaster.
Scarlett smirked, holding up her phone. "Naomi."
"Tell her I wore the jacket like a man of conviction," he said, grinning.
She laughed. "She'll appreciate that."
They lingered, finishing drinks, letting the quiet stretch comfortably. When they finally stood, the afternoon had shifted—bright, but gentler, as if the sun itself waited politely.
Outside, he walked with her toward the parking lot. Their steps matched.
"So…" he said, hands in pockets, "want to do this again? Something more spontaneous than coffee?"
She looked at him, really looked. No mask. No walls.
"Yeah," she said. "I'd like that."
He smiled, a rare kind that settles in the chest rather than the lips. "No pressure. Just… good to see you."
She reached her car, keys in hand, but didn't open the door. He stayed a step closer.
A pause. A moment where maybe—a kiss could've happened.
But he stepped back, subtle, respectful. She exhaled, realizing she'd been holding her breath.
"Oh, and Scarlett?" he called just before she slid in.
She turned.
"Keep the scone wrapper. In case we ever argue about our first real date."
She laughed, tossing it to him. "Deal."
Driving home, the smile stayed longer than she expected. Windows cracked open. The city moved around her, but her mind stayed fixed on one thing.
A feeling she hadn't felt in a long time. Maybe never like that.
When she entered the apartment, Naomi was curled on the couch in an oversized hoodie, balancing a bowl of cereal.
"Well?" Naomi asked without looking up. "You alive? Did he wear the jacket? Serial killer or just emotionally unavailable?"
Scarlett dropped her bag, collapsing next to her. "Yes. Yes. And no."
Naomi turned, narrowing her eyes. "Wait… are you smiling?"
"I am not."
"You are so smiling. Did you actually like him?"
Scarlett grabbed a pillow and tossed it.
Naomi caught it midair like a prize. "You liked him. That's not weird—it's rare."
Scarlett leaned back, arms crossed. "He opened up. Talked about overseas stuff. Real stuff. Hard stuff."
Naomi's teasing faded. "And you listened. That's new."
Scarlett rolled her eyes. "Shut up."
"I'm just saying," Naomi said, "you don't do second dates. You barely do first ones. And now you're not spiraling. That's progress."
Scarlett stared at the ceiling. "It felt… honest. Like I wasn't performing."
Naomi grinned. "So what's next?"
Scarlett smiled faintly. "He mentioned something spontaneous. We'll see."
"Spontaneous. Dangerous. I like it. Just don't do axe throwing. You've got terrible aim."
"No promises."
Jace leaned against the elevator wall, jacket zipped halfway. The scent of coffee lingered on his sleeves, comforting.
Back at his apartment, he dropped the scone wrapper on the counter. Ridiculous. Sentimental.
He didn't throw it away.
He moved to the window, looking out at the evening spilling across the city. Then picked up his phone, thumb hovering over Scarlett's name.
He called. Once. Twice. Her voicemail—calm, amused.
He smiled and hung up. Then typed:
Jace: Hey. No pressure. Just wanted to say I really liked talking today. Hope you're having a good night.
He put the phone down and stared out the window. The city lights moved, people moving like usual, but she was on his mind.
He ran a hand through his hair and grabbed his coffee. Black, just like hers. He smiled, thinking about how she laughed, how she listened.
Jace checked his phone again. No reply yet. Not that he expected one. She was probably home, probably thinking about him too.
Maybe tomorrow, he'd see her again. And maybe it wouldn't be awkward. Maybe it would just be… easy.
He leaned back, letting himself relax. Saturday couldn't come soon enough.