Anna arrived exactly on time.
She knew because she had checked her phone twice on the walk from where she'd parked. Her calves still carried the memory of that distance when she stopped at the curb.
Across the street, the café stood in deliberate contrast to the noise around it. Dark glass windows reflected the city back at itself, flattening movement into muted shapes. The sign above the door was small, understated, almost severe—just a name, rendered in clean lettering, as if it didn't need to persuade anyone to come inside.
For a moment, Anna felt absurdly conspicuous, standing there on the pavement with her bag, her coat, her carefully neutral expression.
This place felt… composed.
She hesitated.
Then she went in.
The door closed behind her with a soft, decisive click—solid enough that she felt it in her spine. The street noise dulled instantly, as though she had stepped through a membrane. The air inside was cooler, cleaner, carrying the faint scent of coffee, polished wood, and something sharper beneath it.
Her body registered the change before her mind did.
No one looked up.
That unsettled her more than attention would have.
She slowed without meaning to. Her steps sounded louder than she expected, each one distinct against the floor. She became aware of how she was moving, how her bag brushed against her hip, how the fabric of her clothes shifted with each step.
She had chosen this outfit carefully. And yet, standing here, she felt faintly underdressed for a rule she hadn't been told about.
She adjusted the strap of her bag, then forced herself to stop.
The room felt arranged. Balanced. Voices were low. Laughter was contained. Everything seemed to exist within boundaries no one had to explain.
Then she saw him.
He sat near the window, posture relaxed in a way that suggested ease rather than indifference. One arm rested lightly along the table's edge, fingers loose. His coat was folded neatly on the chair beside him, fabric holding its shape without effort, as if it belonged there. A cup sat in front of him, steam barely visible.
He wasn't watching the door.
That, somehow, made her more aware of herself.
Anna took a step closer. She noticed the sound her shoes made, the faint sway of her body as she moved. Her breath adjusted to the rhythm of the room.
Then he looked up.
The motion was unhurried, precise, as if he had sensed her presence rather than noticed her. His gaze met hers and stayed there—steady, open, unflinching.
"Anna?" he asked.
His voice was low. Calm. It didn't reach for her. It simply arrived.
"Yes," she said quickly. "That's me. Sorry—I—"
"You're right on time," he said gently.
Something loosened in her chest before she could stop it.
"Oh." A small smile appeared without her permission. "Good. I was worried I'd kept you waiting."
He rose slightly—not fully standing, not closing the distance. Just enough to acknowledge her, to meet her where she was.
"I arrived a little early," he said. "I think it's respectful."
Relief softened her shoulders.
"That's really nice," she said, and meant it.
He returned a small smile. Not wide. Not performative. Just enough to acknowledge her reaction.
"Please," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him.
She crossed the remaining distance and sat, setting her bag carefully at her feet. Her thighs brushed the edge of the chair, and the awareness of that contact lingered longer than it should have.
"I'm glad you found the place," he said.
"It's beautiful," Anna replied honestly. "I don't usually come to cafés like this."
He nodded, listening.
A waiter approached, and Anna became acutely aware of being seen.
"Um… a latte, please. Normal milk is fine."
The waiter nodded and left.
Silence settled between them.
He didn't rush to fill it. He didn't soften it with small talk.
Anna glanced down at the table, tracing the edge of the wood with her eyes, then looked back up. He was watching her—present. When their eyes met, he didn't look away.
A strange warmth bloomed beneath her ribs, slow and spreading.
"I had to park a little far," she said, smiling self-consciously. "The street was packed."
"It can be," he replied.
"I thought I might be late."
"You weren't," he said again.
The repetition felt deliberate.
The waiter returned with her drink. Anna wrapped her fingers around the cup, grateful for the warmth seeping into her palms. The porcelain grounded her, drew her back into her body.
Up close, she noticed his scent. Subtle. It lingered just long enough to register when she breathed in.
She liked it.
"So," she said, feeling unexpectedly brave, "I guess this is a blind date."
"If that's how it was presented to you," he replied.
She laughed softly. "My friend thought it would be good for me."
"She sounds attentive."
"She is," Anna said quickly. "Very."
He nodded, as if that mattered.
As the conversation unfolded, she found herself speaking more easily than she'd expected. She talked about university, about teaching, about the comfort she found in structure and routine. He listened without interrupting, without steering her, his attention steady and complete.
Her shoulders lowered. Her breath slowed. She stopped monitoring the tilt of her head, the shape of her smile.
Lucien didn't touch her.
He didn't need to.
His attention was enough—angled toward her, focused in a way that made the rest of the room fade. It felt like being gently held in place, not restrained but supported.
"You've been carrying more than you need to," he said quietly.
The words landed low in her chest, warm and heavy.
By the time the light outside softened toward gold, the earlier tension felt distant. The café no longer seemed imposing. The chairs felt less rigid.
She realized, with quiet wonder, that she felt calm.
The change registered gradually—in the way her attention narrowed, in how she noticed the cadence of his voice, the pauses he allowed to stretch just long enough to feel intentional.
She was warmer than before.
She shifted slightly, crossing her ankles beneath the table. The movement drew her attention to the brush of fabric against her skin, the steady support of the chair. Everything felt sharper. More present.
Lucien was watching her again.
"I talk when I'm nervous," she admitted lightly.
"You don't seem nervous anymore."
"Maybe I'm just distracted," she said, half-joking.
He inclined his head slightly, considering her with calm interest.
She noticed how close his hands were to the edge of the table. Not reaching. Not invading. Simply there. Still. Capable.
Her body responded before she could stop it—a subtle tightening low in her stomach, a faint pressure that made her thighs press together.
This is ridiculous, she thought.
And yet, the awareness deepened.
She found herself watching his mouth when he spoke, the measured way he formed words, the pause before he answered—as though each response were chosen.
She realized she wanted his attention to stay exactly where it was.
The realization unsettled her.
Lucien leaned back slightly, as though settling into something already decided.
"I don't think you came here with expectations," he said. "That's unusual."
"Is it?"
"For most people."
"I just wanted… to see what it would feel like."
"And?"
"It feels… easy."
The word surprised her as soon as it left her mouth.
He considered it, then nodded. "That's often a sign that something fits."
Fits.
Her breath caught.
"Would you like to walk for a bit?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, without hesitation.
He didn't take her hand. He stepped aside, allowing her to move first. As they walked, she felt the subtle attunement of his presence beside her—the matched pace, the quiet awareness.
They moved through a quieter corridor, wrapped in a steamy silence. Her skin felt more sensitive to the air, to the faint movement of fabric against her legs. Her thoughts felt heavier now, slower, as if they had sunk lower in her body.
She was still aware of his scent.
Absurd. He wasn't touching her. He wasn't close enough for it to matter this much.
And yet.
"You seem quieter," he said.
"I'm thinking."
She noticed she was closer to him now. Not because he had moved.
Her body had.
He adjusted subtly, angling just enough to give her space without breaking stride. The movement felt less like accommodation and more like confirmation.
Her breath hitched.
She was no longer pretending this was neutral.
"Maybe I just don't want this to feel like an interview," she said.
"Then it won't," he replied.
A statement.
"If you don't mind," he continued, "I'd like to see you again."
Her heart skipped. "I'd like that."
He smiled—slow, restrained, unmistakably satisfied.
"Good," he said. "Then we'll take our time."
The warmth settled around her, chosen rather than accidental.
"Can I ask you something a little personal?" he said.
She hesitated, then nodded.
"What do you think about marriage?"
The question was gentle. Almost casual.
She laughed softly. "That's early."
"Is it?"
"I'm only twenty-one," she said. "I think of it like a story. Something you grow into with someone."
"A story."
"Choosing each other every day," she said, warming as she spoke. "If you make a promise, you should keep it. Forever shouldn't be a word you use lightly."
He listened, chin resting on his interlaced fingers.
"Forever," he repeated. "That's a significant commitment."
"It's the only kind that matters," she said. "In family. In everything."
"And children?" he asked. "Do they belong in that forever?"
Her face lit up. "Absolutely. Building a real home—it's everything."
She spoke with unguarded sincerity.
Lucien leaned back, relaxed. His eyes were clear, sharp, recording every word.
This one was better
This one was so much better than what he had been prepared for.
The openness, the pliability, the deep-seated longing for permanence and belonging… it was all there, wrapped in a package of refreshing, unpolished sincerity.