Ayra's POV
It began with a disaster. Naturally.
Me, late. Paris, crowded. Two iced coffees in hand. Phone call with Selene screaming in my ear about a broken boutique link. And then—bam. Elbows. Paperbacks. Cold coffee soaking into a stranger's very white shirt.
"Sweet mercy—I just murdered your outfit!" I gasped. The coffees were now artful splatters across his chest.
"I think you baptized it," he said, blinking, then smiling. Not annoyed. Not frowning. Smiling.
He was tall, kind of lanky, with sun-warmed skin and soft brown eyes that studied me like I was far more interesting than a cup of coffee.
"I'm Ayra," I said, breathless, waving a napkin around uselessly. "Destroyer of dry clothes."
He laughed. "Eliot. Victim of your caffeine crimes."
We stood there awkwardly for a second, then both spoke at the same time. Then both laughed. And before I knew it, he was offering to walk with me to the bookstore around the corner.
That walk?
It lasted an hour.
We talked about weird book covers, the smell of rain on stone streets, how he taught art classes on weekends, how I designed dresses but still didn't know how to sew a button properly.
And when we reached the boutique, he turned to me and said, "Ayra… can I see you again? Preferably somewhere not involving coffee-based collisions?"
My heart stuttered. "Yeah. I think I'd like that."
Over the next week
He didn't ghost. He didn't play games. Eliot sent voice notes every morning. He sent sketches of outfits I'd described. He even asked to see the worst dress I ever designed and then complimented it until I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the bed.
One night, we met again—under a streetlamp outside a jazz bar. We didn't even go in. Just walked. His hand brushed mine. And when I leaned into him during a gust of wind, he wrapped his coat around both of us.
We had the eye contacts which was literally so much perfect which I've never felt before.
There was No kiss. No rush. Just quiet understanding.
Then came the decision:
Tell Selene.
I called her at midnight.
"I like him, Eliot . The guy I talked about with you earlier" I said, no preamble.
She gasped so loud I thought she choked on air. "Wait. The coffee guy?!"
"Yes, Eliot." I smiled into my pillow. "He's gentle. And weird. And he listens."
Selene practically exploded. "We need a double date. Now. Antonio will love him. Or interrogate him. Same thing."
————Double Date Night————
It was a rooftop café with string lights and linen napkins. Eliot wore a charcoal shirt, hair slightly messy. He looked nervous but confident—an odd mix I found adorable.
Antonio gave him the classic big brother glare when they shook hands. But within minutes, they were talking about architectural drawings and Italian jazz.
Selene slid beside me, bumping my shoulder. "You're glowing."
"He makes it easy," I whispered.
Later, while Eliot was telling Antonio about the worst sculpture he'd ever made, I looked at Selene and felt the shift.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel like a shadow beside her.
I felt like me.
And I was falling in love.