I don't expect to see him again.
That's the rule I make for myself as I step into the small café off Admiralty Way two weeks later—early morning, oversized sweater, hair pulled into a careless bun. This is my quiet place. My reset button between deadlines and client calls.
I order my usual and turn toward the corner table when I hear his voice.
"Amara?"
I freeze.
Slowly, I turn.
Daniel is standing near the counter, coffee in hand, surprise flickering briefly across his face before settling into that familiar calm. He's dressed casually today—dark jeans, white shirt, sleeves rolled up. Somehow, he still looks intentional.
"Oh," I say. Brilliant. "Hi."
"Hi," he replies, smiling. "I didn't think I'd see you here."
"Neither did I," I admit. "I come here to avoid… people."
He chuckles softly. "Same. Guess the universe disagreed."
We stand there awkwardly for a second before he gestures toward my table. "Mind if I join you?"
I should say no.
I don't.
"Sure."
We sit across from each other, the table small, our knees almost touching. Outside, the city is already awake, but in here, everything feels slower.
"How have you been?" he asks.
"Busy," I say. "Always busy."
"You don't sound convinced."
I stir my coffee, watching the foam dissolve. "Busy keeps my thoughts quiet."
He nods, like he understands exactly what I mean.
"I'm in between site visits," he says. "I come here when I need to think."
"What about?"
He considers the question. "What kind of man I want to be next."
The honesty disarms me.
"That's a big thought for 8 a.m.," I say lightly.
"Grief doesn't follow a schedule," he replies gently.
I don't joke after that.
Instead, I ask, "Do you ever feel like loving again would be… a betrayal?"
His eyes soften. "Every day."
Something shifts between us then—something fragile and real. We're no longer two strangers brushing past each other. We're two people standing on the same emotional fault line.
"I'm scared," I confess quietly. "Not of being alone. Of being hopeful."
He reaches across the table—not touching me, just close enough to feel the warmth of his presence.
"Hope doesn't mean you're weak," he says. "It just means you're human."
My throat tightens.
We talk longer than we plan to. About work. About expectations. About how healing isn't linear and how some days still feel heavy.
When it's time to leave, neither of us moves right away.
"This was… unexpected," I say.
"Yes," he agrees. "But I'm glad it happened."
Me too.
Outside, he hesitates before saying, "If we ever meet again—intentionally or not—I'd like to keep talking."
I meet his gaze, heart loud in my chest. "Okay."
As we walk in opposite directions, I know something has changed.
Almost loving someone is heavy.
Because it makes you wonder what could happen if you let yourself fall.