The city moved fast, but Aria had always managed to stay ahead of it. Deadlines, projects, late-night walks—her life had rhythm and control. At least, until him.
She saw him again three days later.
Not in some dark alley, not during danger. He was there at her favorite café, sitting at the corner table with a cup of black coffee untouched, his gaze fixed on her as if he had been waiting.
Her stomach dropped. "You have got to be kidding me…"
When she tried to ignore him and order, the barista glanced nervously at the tall man across the room. Clearly, he wasn't a stranger here.
"Aria," he said, his voice carrying just enough to reach her.
She froze, latte halfway to her lips. "How do you even know my name?"
He rose, the café shrinking around his presence. People gave him space the way the sea bends to a tide. He stopped in front of her, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
"Names are easy," he murmured. "It's the person behind them that interests me."
Aria's pulse betrayed her, quickening at the heat in his tone. But she masked it with a sharp glare. "You think stalking me is charming?"
"Stalking," he repeated, as though tasting the word. Then his lips curved into that same not-smile she remembered. "Protecting. There's a difference."
She almost laughed. "I don't need a bodyguard."
"Not a bodyguard," he corrected softly, leaning just enough that she caught the faintest trace of his cologne—dark, expensive, intoxicating. "Something else."
The tension between them snapped like static. She felt it—sharp, undeniable—before she forced herself a step back.
"You're insane," she muttered, grabbing her drink. But her hand trembled just slightly, and she prayed he hadn't noticed.
He had. His gaze dropped to her fingers, then lifted back to her eyes with a softness she hadn't expected.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But I don't think I can stop."
And before she could respond, he was gone—slipping out of the café as if he had only been a shadow.
Aria sank into a chair, heart racing, torn between relief and something far more dangerous: the memory of how close he had leaned in, and the fire his presence left burning inside her.