Every Sunday, he would take his place on the terrace of a small café tucked away in the old quarter of Barcelona.
He always ordered the same thing: a café au lait, very hot.
Always the same seat, too — the one in the shade, backed against the warm stone wall that still held the heat of the day before.
He wrote for hours.
His notebook open in front of him, his gaze sometimes drifting into the middle distance, sometimes sharp, almost inhabited. He had this strange way of being absent from the world while appearing to miss nothing in it.
Christelle watched him often.
At first out of curiosity.
Then out of habit.
Then for a reason she no longer cared to put into words.
She'd worked there two years. She knew men. Knew the heavy stares, the insistent smiles, the conversations that were always reaching for something.
He never reached.
And that was precisely what unsettled her.
Not a word too many. Not an awkward advance. Not that visible hunger she could spot across a room in an instant.
But there was something else.
A quiet tension.
As though his desire had no need to take. As though it could wait.
And that disarmed her completely.
That morning she wore a light sage-colored dress that slipped against her thighs with every step. Her dark hair was half pinned up, a few loose strands falling against the nape of her neck.
When she approached him with his coffee, he was still writing.
— Your coffee.
He looked up.
And something shifted, immediately.
Not a smile.
Not a gesture.
Just his gaze.
Dense. Unhurried. Deeply male.
As though he were genuinely taking the time to look at her.
Her stomach contracted on the spot.
She felt warmth rise through her chest and then lower, without warning.
For one second she forgot entirely what she had come to say.
He didn't look away.
He held her gaze with an almost insolent calm.
As though he knew exactly the effect he was having on her.
And the worst of it was that she didn't think he was performing.
— Thank you, Christelle.
His voice was low. Soft.
She felt a shiver move along her arms.
How could he say her name like that?
She forced herself to pull it together.
— Can I get you anything else?
A silence.
Very brief.
But long enough to become dangerous.
His eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to her mouth before finding hers again.
And this time she felt her breath catch — unmistakably.
— Not yet.
She turned and walked back inside immediately.
Too quickly.
As though staying one second longer beside him would have been a very bad idea.
Back behind the bar, she pressed both palms flat on the counter and breathed in slowly.
Her heart was beating far too hard.
This was ridiculous.
Completely ridiculous.
And yet her entire body was still responding to that look.
To the way he had watched her without urgency.
Without nerves.
As though he were already savoring something.
She tried to focus on her accounts, but she could feel the presence of that man just outside.
Like a persistent warmth.
A few minutes later she saw him come inside.
He was heading toward the back to wash his hands before leaving.
The corridor was narrow.
Far too narrow.
She stayed perched on her high stool behind the counter as he moved slowly toward her.
Each step seemed to press more weight into the air between them.
When he reached her, she had to pull her legs slightly back to let him pass.
His knee grazed her bare thigh — accidentally.
The contact was barely anything.
But her body answered at once.
A slow charge moved through her belly.
She felt her lips part without meaning them to.
He stopped.
Just for a second.
Long enough to make clear that he had noticed too.
The silence was becoming almost obscene.
She could smell him now.
Coffee and warm skin and something darker underneath.
Masculine.
Very masculine.
He placed one hand on the counter beside her to steady himself in the narrow space.
His arm was close enough that she wanted to touch it.
And that thought very nearly frightened her.
He turned his head slightly toward her.
Their faces were only centimeters apart.
She could literally feel his breath against her skin.
His eyes moved down to her mouth.
Then back up.
Slowly.
Like a caress.
And in that precise instant she understood something terribly simple:
if neither of them stepped back, they were going to kiss.
Her heart was pounding hard now.
She should have moved.
Said something.
Done anything at all.
But her body refused.
Held in suspension.
As though it had been waiting for exactly this for weeks.