Chapter 11
By Wednesday, I'd convinced myself I wasn't going to see him again.
Not because I didn't want to—God, I wanted to—but because pretending not to expect him felt safer. It was easier to call it coincidence than to admit I was starting to look for him in every crowd.
But the city had other plans.
It started in the queue at the bakery near campus. I was debating whether to buy a pain au chocolat when I heard his voice behind me.
"You always take this long to choose, or is this just for dramatic effect?"
I didn't turn around immediately. "Maybe I'm just considerate of the people behind me," I said, then added, "though apparently that's wasted effort."
When I did face him, he was wearing that same infuriating half-smile, the one that suggested he already knew the answer to whatever question he was about to ask.
"Coffee?" he said, like it wasn't a question at all.
We ended up at a tiny table outside, the kind with legs that wobbled every time someone shifted their weight. The sun was out for once, slicing through the February chill. We talked about ridiculous things—his failed attempt to make risotto, my inability to fold fitted sheets—and somewhere between the laughter and the crumbs, I realized I'd stopped bracing myself.
I wasn't waiting for him to disappear.
When he asked if I wanted to walk a bit, I said yes without thinking.
We wound through side streets, past painted shutters and leaning bicycles, until we reached the canal. The water was dark, almost black, but the light caught on its surface in silver ripples. We stood there for a while, not speaking.
"Do you always wander like this?" I asked eventually.
"Only when I'm trying to avoid work," he said. "Or when I've got better company."
It should have been a throwaway line. It wasn't.
He glanced at me then, really looked, and I felt the same sensation I'd had in the record shop—that quiet, startling awareness that he saw more than I meant to show.
We walked until the cold crept into my fingers. I didn't want the afternoon to end, so when he suggested stopping for another coffee, I didn't pretend to check my watch.
The café we found was almost empty. He claimed the seat beside me again, close enough that our knees brushed under the table. I didn't move mine away.
Halfway through his cup, he said, "You have this way of looking at people. Like you're trying to figure out if they're lying."
"Maybe I am," I said.
"And am I?"
I held his gaze. "Not yet."
His smile was slow, like he was tucking the moment away.
When we finally left, he walked me to the Tube. We stood at the top of the stairs, where the wind rushed up from below, and neither of us seemed quite ready to say goodbye.
"See you around," he said.
It wasn't a promise, but it wasn't nothing either.
On the train home, I caught my reflection in the darkened window. My cheeks were pink from the wind, my eyes bright. I didn't recognize myself, but in the best way.
That night, I dreamed of the canal, of silver ripples and the space between words.
The dream should have faded by morning, but it lingered, slipping into my thoughts as I made tea, as I marked essays, even as I lectured about the layered meanings in 19th-century poetry.
By evening, I needed air. The kind you can't get from cracking open a window.
The streets were quieter than usual, the kind of hush London only allows when it's between rushes—too late for commuters, too early for the pub crowd. I walked with no destination, letting my feet choose turns without reason.
When I reached the corner by the old bookshop, I saw him.
He was leaning against the wall, hands tucked in his coat pockets, looking at something across the street. The sight of him sent that ridiculous, traitorous rush through me again, but there was something different this time. His posture was looser, almost… tired.
Before I could stop myself, I called out, "You waiting for someone, or just loitering artistically?"
His head turned, and the moment he saw me, his mouth curved into something faint but genuine. "Neither. Just… thinking."
I stepped closer. "Dangerous habit."
"I know." His eyes flicked to the bookshop window. "Do you ever look at something and think you could lose hours here, and still not find what you're looking for?"
It wasn't the sort of question you answered casually. But the tone—low, almost confessional—made me want to try.
"Sometimes," I said. "Though usually it's more about people than places."
That earned me one of those pauses, the kind that makes you aware of every sound around you—the distant hum of traffic, the faint creak of a door hinge, the shuffle of your own breath.
He pushed off the wall. "Come on."
I followed him inside.
The shop smelled of dust and ink, and the air was cool in that way only places lined with too many books can be. We wandered between the shelves, speaking in the hushed voices the space demanded. He picked up an old poetry collection and leafed through it with slow care, like he was trying to memorize the feel of the pages.
"Read me something," I said, surprising even myself.
He glanced up. "Here?"
"Here."
He found a page and began, his voice steady but quiet enough that I had to lean in to catch every word. The poem wasn't romantic in the traditional sense—it was about distance, about longing—but the way he read it made my pulse do strange, uneven things.
When he finished, neither of us spoke for a moment. Then he closed the book, slipped it back onto the shelf, and said, "You should walk home with me."
It wasn't an order, but it wasn't far from one either.
Outside, the air had cooled further. At one point, my hand brushed against his. It could have been an accident, but he didn't pull away, and neither did I.
When we reached my street, he stopped. "You're different when you're not thinking about what to say next."
"I'm always thinking about what to say next," I replied, a little too quickly.
"Not always," he said, and there was that quiet certainty again, like he knew something I didn't.
We stood there in the glow of the streetlight, and for a second, I thought he might step closer. But he only gave a small nod, like he'd decided something, and said, "Goodnight."
I watched him go, the sound of his footsteps fading until the night swallowed them completely.