The next morning, the city feels different—still noisy, still fast, but somehow less heavy. I force myself out of the apartment and into the crowded streets, clutching my sketchbook like a lifeline. Maybe today is the day something changes.
I'm lost in the swirl of people when suddenly, someone bumps into me, sending my papers flying. "Sorry!" a voice says, low and apologetic.
I look up and meet eyes that are warm, dark, and honest—his expression quick to apologize but curious, like he didn't expect to run into someone like me.
"It's okay," I manage, gathering the scattered sketches. His hand shoots out to help, fingers brushing mine briefly, and for a second, the world narrows to just that moment.
"Are you okay?" he asks, his voice calm and steady.
"Yeah. Thanks." I'm surprised by how natural it feels to talk to him, even though we just met.
I'm James, he says with a small smile.
Nina.
We share a glance, brief but charged with something neither of us can name yet.
As we part ways, I realize my heart is beating faster than it should. Maybe, just maybe, this city has a few more surprises left for me.
I walk away, pretending not to look back, but of course I do. He's already blending into the crowd, but something about that moment lingers—his voice, the way his fingers brushed mine, how he said my name like he wanted to remember it.
Back in my apartment, I can't focus. I try to paint, but every line feels wrong. I end up pacing, thinking about James. He looked like someone who'd seen a bit too much life, like he laughed easily but carried things deep. Dangerous. Familiar.
Later that evening, I take the long way to the corner café. Part of me is hoping I'll see him again. I tell myself it's silly—it was just a bump, a moment—but it's been a while since someone made my pulse stutter like that.
I order a coffee and take a seat by the window, sketchbook open but mostly untouched. My mind's still on him, wondering if he felt it too… that strange jolt, like something waking up inside.
And then—like the universe is listening—I hear that voice again.
"Twice in one day?" James says, standing there, coffee in hand, wearing that same easy smile. "I'm starting to think you're following me."
I laugh, shaking my head. "You wish."
He sits.
And just like that, something begins.
We sit across from each other, the air humming with something unspoken. He doesn't say much at first, just watches me with those eyes like he's trying to read between my lines. I sip my coffee to give my hands something to do.
"So… what's your story, Nina?" he asks, finally.
I smirk. "That's a heavy question for someone I just met."
"You didn't seem like the small-talk type."
He's not wrong. I hate shallow conversations. But there's something about him that makes me want to give more than I usually would.
"I'm an artist," I say. "I moved here to start over."
He leans back, nodding slowly. "Starting over… that's brave."
"What about you?" I ask.
James shrugs. "I fix bikes. Ride a little. I'm good with my hands."
He says it casually, but the way his eyes hold mine after those words? He knows exactly what he's doing.
I feel heat creep up my neck. I look down at my cup, biting back a smile.
"And confident, apparently."
He laughs—low, smooth, a little wicked. "Just honest."
The café noise fades around us. It feels like we've known each other longer than an afternoon.
His knee brushes mine under the table—barely intentional, maybe. Maybe not.