Thana texted him that afternoon.
Coffee? Or are you only interested in philosophical ambushes over espresso?
Andres smirked.
Only if you promise to ambush me again. You're good at it.
They met at a bookstore café near Lincoln Center. This time, she was more open. Laughing, teasing. Still sharp — but warmer. He watched her fingers as she tapped the lid of her coffee cup.
He imagined snapping them.
He imagined kissing them.
That was the problem.
"Tell me something real," she said suddenly, eyes catching his. "No charm. No deflection. Just... real."
Andres paused.
He could've lied.
Instead, he said, "My mother was a pianist. I hated music until she died."
Thana blinked. "You hated it because she forced you?"
"No. Because when she played, she wasn't my mother. She was someone else. Someone I couldn't reach."
A silence stretched between them. Not uncomfortable — just aware.
"That's the most honest thing you've said since we met," she said.
"I didn't lie," he replied.
She smiled. "But you hide. Constantly."
"You're hiding too," he said.
She nodded slowly. "I know."
As they walked outside, he reached for her hand. She let him hold it — briefly — then pulled away just before the light changed.
Timing.
She was always aware of it.