New Orleans didn't glow at night.
It shimmered.
The Quarter breathed music into the humid August air—trumpets rising, drums tapping steady beneath laughter and clinking glasses. Gas lamps flickered against wrought-iron balconies, and powdered sugar from Café du Monde drifted like something sweet and harmless. The pavement still held the memory of rain, warm and damp beneath the glow of streetlights. A thin mist hovered just above the ground, catching light in a way that made everything look softer than it was. The city felt dressed up—perfumed, polished, pretending innocence while something older pulsed beneath the surface.
Ebony Baptiste adjusted the strap of her dress as she crossed the street, offering a small apologetic smile to a couple she accidentally brushed past.
"Sorry," she murmured automatically.
She was always like that—careful not to inconvenience anyone. Careful not to take up too much space. Even the way she walked was measured, as if she were subconsciously trying not to disturb the night around her. She didn't like making scenes. She didn't like drawing attention, even though attention seemed to find her anyway.
First dates made her nervous, but not in a dramatic way. More like a soft flutter beneath her ribs. She liked people. She liked giving them the benefit of the doubt. She believed most intentions were good.
Sometimes to her own detriment.
She didn't think of herself as beautiful, even though strangers often did. Compliments embarrassed her more than flattered her. Her golden-brown skin seemed to catch every bit of light, and her dark almond-shaped eyes were usually wide with curiosity more than seduction. Her curls spilled over her shoulders, never fully obedient, framing a face that looked softer than she realized. When she smiled, it was genuine—unguarded. She never practiced it in mirrors.
She preferred lab coats to dresses. Plants to parties. Research papers to romance.
And yet she had said yes.
James had been kind on the phone. That was what she liked most. He listened. He asked about her work—really asked—and didn't make jokes about her being "too smart." Their calls had stretched for weeks, sometimes late into the night. He'd laugh softly when she rambled about immune responses or plant alkaloids. He made her feel interesting.
Seen.
He had remembered small details—her favorite tea, the way she couldn't sleep during thunderstorms, how she once accidentally killed a basil plant and mourned it like a pet. That attentiveness had felt safe. Familiar. Earnest.
Inside the restaurant, he stood when she approached.
"Ebony," he said warmly. "You look… breathtaking."
Her cheeks warmed instantly. She tucked a curl behind her ear. "Oh. Thank you. You look nice too."
She meant it.
They sat. Ordered drinks. The candlelight softened everything, made the world feel smaller and safer. The golden glow blurred edges, hid sharpness. The hum of conversation wrapped around them like insulation, making their corner feel private—almost intimate in a way that should have been comforting.
"So," he said, leaning forward with interest, "tell me more about the lab."
She smiled. "I feel like I've talked your ear off about that already."
"I don't mind," he replied quickly. "I like hearing you explain it."
That felt nice. Most people didn't.
She began describing a recent study—how certain plant compounds showed promise in antiviral response. She got a little animated without realizing it, hands moving slightly as she spoke. Her voice lifted when she talked about possibility. About healing. About how much of the earth still held secrets waiting to be understood.
He watched her closely.
Not just listening.
Watching.
"How many people are on your team?" he asked.
"Five," she answered easily.
"And security? Like access codes and restricted entry?"
She blinked, slightly surprised. "Oh. Um… yes, I guess. University protocols and all that."
She gave a small laugh. "We're not curing zombies or anything."
He smiled—but something about his eyes didn't quite match the warmth in his voice. The corners of his mouth lifted, but his gaze didn't soften. It stayed sharp. Fixed. Almost calculating, though she couldn't quite name why that thought flickered through her mind.
"That kind of work could attract attention," he said. "You must have safeguards."
She nodded, still smiling, though her stomach gave a tiny, almost forgettable twist. "We're careful."
Every woman wants a man interested in her work. That's what she told herself. Maybe he was just trying to understand.
Still, he kept asking.
Late hours?
Who had clearance?
Did she ever work alone?
The questions stacked quietly, like papers sliding into a file.
She didn't think badly of him—her mind didn't work that way—but a soft confusion crept in. They hadn't talked this intensely about logistics on the phone. Back then he'd asked about her favorite tea. Her childhood garden. The way she sounded when she laughed.
Now his focus felt… narrower.
Intent.
And then there was the way he looked at her.
At first she told herself it was attraction. That was normal. She wasn't naïve.
But his gaze lingered. Traveled slowly from her face to her collarbone, to the neckline of her dress, then back up again in a way that made her swallow.
Not appreciative.
Appraising.
It wasn't shy desire. It wasn't gentle curiosity.
It was hunger without warmth.
Her skin prickled, and for a moment she became acutely aware of the thinness of her dress, of the exposed skin along her shoulders, of how easily someone's eyes could trace every visible line.
Her cheeks warmed again, but this time it wasn't shyness. It was something closer to embarrassment. As if she'd done something wrong by wearing the dress at all.
She shifted slightly in her seat.
He reached across the table and brushed his fingers against her wrist. The touch wasn't rough—but it wasn't accidental either. His thumb lingered just a fraction too long, pressing lightly as if testing how much pressure she would tolerate.
"You're passionate," he said softly. "I like that."
She gave him a small, polite smile.
On the phone, his voice had been relaxed. Easy. The man across from her felt… tighter. His eyes were brighter. His attention sharper, like she was something to solve instead of someone to know.
Maybe she was overthinking.
She did that sometimes.
Still, her heart beat just a little faster.
When he asked again about security measures—casual, like he'd forgotten he'd already asked—she felt something small click into place.
Not fear.
Just discomfort.
A faint chill beneath the warmth of the restaurant.
She hated discomfort.
"I'm going to step to the restroom," she said gently, offering an apologetic smile as if she were inconveniencing him.
"Of course," he replied smoothly.
She stood, aware of his eyes following her. She told herself that was normal. Men looked. It didn't have to mean anything.
Still, the weight of his gaze pressed between her shoulder blades as she walked away. She resisted the urge to turn around.
Her steps quickened slightly down the hallway.
Inside the restroom, she leaned against the sink and studied her reflection. The fluorescent lighting was harsher here, unforgiving. It stripped away candlelight illusions.
"You're fine," she whispered softly.
But her eyes looked different now.
More alert.
Her pulse still hadn't settled.
Maybe he was just intense.
Maybe he really admired her work.
Maybe she just wasn't used to that kind of attention in person.
She pressed her cool hands against her cheeks, trying to settle the warmth there. Her fingers trembled slightly before she steadied them against the porcelain.
He had been so kind on the phone.
So patient.
So different.
She didn't want to assume the worst. That wasn't who she was.
But something felt… misaligned.
Like the voice she'd grown comfortable with didn't quite belong to the eyes watching her across that table.
Like the man she'd been speaking to for weeks had stepped aside, and someone else had taken his place under candlelight.
She straightened her dress.
Ten more minutes, she decided sweetly. Finish the drink. Be polite. See if the feeling passes.
Because she always gave people chances.
Sometimes more than they deserved.
And outside the restroom door, the music swelled again—louder now, sharper—like the city itself was holding its breath.