Alright—Chapter 2.
We rewind,
Three weeks earlier, the city was quieter than it ever admitted to being.
The café on Seventh Street was still open out of stubbornness, not demand. Two tables occupied—one by a man asleep over his laptop, the other by me, nursing a cup of coffee I didn't want but needed as an excuse to sit somewhere that wasn't my apartment.
It was 2:17 a.m.
I remember because that was the moment my life tilted.
He asked if he could sit.
Not politely. Not rudely either. Just… neutrally. Like the answer wouldn't bother him either way.
I looked up, ready to say no out of habit—and stopped.
He wasn't striking in the obvious way. No sharp angles or dramatic presence. But his eyes were steady, observant, the kind that suggested he listened more than he spoke. He wore a dark jacket, slightly worn at the cuffs, and carried himself like someone comfortable with silence.
"There are other tables," I said.
"Yes," he agreed. Then sat anyway.
I should have been annoyed. Instead, I found myself curious.
"You look like someone avoiding going home," he said, glancing at my untouched coffee.
I snorted. "You look like someone who shouldn't comment on strangers' lives."
"Fair." He paused. "Am I wrong?"
I hesitated. That was my first mistake.
"No," I admitted.
He smiled—not triumphant, not charming. Just a quiet acknowledgment, like we'd reached an understanding.
We sat there for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator behind the counter filling the space between us. I became aware of small things: the way his fingers rested loosely on the table, the faint crease between his brows like he thought too much, the warmth of his presence without him invading my space.
"Long night?" he asked.
"Long life," I corrected.
That earned a soft laugh. "Same."
I studied him openly now. He didn't flinch under it. Most men did—either posturing or retreating. He did neither.
"What do you do?" he asked.
I considered lying. "I make decisions people don't like."
"That sounds powerful."
"It's mostly lonely."
He nodded, like that made perfect sense.
"What about you?" I asked.
"I mind my business," he said. Then, after a beat, "And occasionally make bad choices."
That should have ended the conversation. Instead, I found myself smiling.
The waitress brought refills neither of us asked for. Time slipped, unnoticed.
"Can I ask you something strange?" he said eventually.
"At this hour? That's implied."
"Do you think marriage has to start with love?"
I laughed. Out loud. It echoed too much in the quiet café.
"No," I said. "I think it usually starts with convenience and expectations. Love comes later. Or not at all."
He watched me closely. "You sound very sure."
"I've watched enough of them fall apart."
"My parents stayed married forty years," he said.
"And were they happy?"
He considered. "They were… committed."
"That's not the same thing."
"No," he agreed. "But it's not nothing either."
Something shifted then—subtle but unmistakable. The air between us felt different, heavier, charged with possibility I didn't want to acknowledge.
"What if," he said slowly, "two people agreed to a marriage that was honest from the beginning?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Honest how?"
"No pretending. No romantic performances. Just terms." He met my gaze. "A practical arrangement."
I stared at him. Any other man saying this would have sounded ridiculous. With him, it sounded… thoughtful. Dangerous.
"You're proposing something," I said.
"Discussing," he corrected.
"For what purpose?"
He shrugged lightly. "Stability. Appearances. Shared expenses. Mutual respect."
"And sex?" I asked, blunt.
His gaze flicked to my mouth before returning to my eyes. "Optional. Negotiable. Not expected."
That sent an unexpected pulse through me.
"You don't even know my name," I said.
"No," he admitted. "But I know you're tired of explaining yourself. I know you're not impulsive. And I know you wouldn't say yes unless you meant it."
I should have walked out.
Instead, I asked, "What's your name?"
He told me.
It sounded normal. Too normal for the way my chest tightened hearing it.
We talked until the sky outside lightened at the edges. Logistics. Boundaries. Conditions. All of it absurd—and strangely grounding.
"This is insane," I said, standing to leave.
"Yes," he agreed easily. "But it's also clear."
At the door, I hesitated. He didn't reach for me. Didn't pressure. Just waited.
"If I say no tomorrow," I said, "this never happened."
"Of course."
"And if I say yes?"
His eyes softened, just a fraction. "Then we do it properly."
I nodded once and stepped out into the cool early-morning air.
At 2:17 a.m., I'd laughed at the idea.
By sunrise, I couldn't stop thinking about it.
And that was how the most dangerous decision of my life began—not with love, but with honesty.
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