Chapter 7: Mine Maybe

The cafe was half-empty when she arrived.Good.

She hated crowds. Too loud, too bright, too many people pretending not to watch while watching everything. But this place—this small, brick-walled nook tucked off a quieter street—was different. The scent of cinnamon drifted lazy through the air. Jazz played soft over the speakers, low enough not to compete with thought.

It was quiet. Safe enough.

Eliot was already there, sitting in the back near the window, a mug in one hand and the other tapping restlessly against a closed notebook. He looked out of place in the best way. Like someone who didn't quite belong in the world but had learned how to move through it anyway.

He saw her, and smiled.

Not the kind of smile people give when they want something. Not performative. Just open. A little shy. Like he hadn't been sure she'd actually show.

And maybe she hadn't been.

She sat down across from him without a word. No greetings. They didn't need them.

He didn't ask why she picked this cafe. Didn't question the way her eyes swept the room before she sat, or why she kept her back to the wall.

He just slid the second coffee across the table.

Their fingers brushed.

This time, she didn't pull away.

"So," he said after a moment, "I thought about ordering you coffee, but I figured the joke wouldn't land twice."

"It wasn't a joke," she replied, taking a sip. "I lied. To be polite."

That caught him off guard. His laugh came out soft and surprised. "You're honest in a way that's… kind of terrifying."

"You're afraid of honesty?"

"I'm afraid of being terrified."

"Then you're in the wrong company."

He didn't look away. Not right away.Then he did.

But not before she saw it—that flicker of something. Not fear. Not even desire. Just that same quiet awareness she'd felt before. That sense that he was paying attention. Not just watching her—noticing her.

It was unnerving. And oddly comforting.

He looked tired. Damp hair from the morning mist. A coat too light for the season. The collar of his sweater curled slightly where it had been tugged. She wanted to fix it. She didn't.

"Did you write?" she asked.

He nodded. "A little."

"About me?"

His fingers stopped tapping.

"…Yeah."

She tilted her head. "Show me?"

"Not yet," he said, flushing. "It's a mess."

"I like messes."

"That's also terrifying."

She smiled. It didn't reach her mouth. Just flickered, faint, in her eyes.

They sat like that for a while. Comfortable. The kind of silence that didn't demand anything. Every so often, someone entered, ordered, left. The music looped. Light shifted through the fogged window.

And then he walked in.

Suit. Loosened tie. Sharp haircut. Sharper gaze.

Lena didn't need to look directly at him to feel it.

That kind of attention always burned.

The man passed their table, didn't slow, but his eyes dragged. Down her legs. Up her chest. No attempt to hide it. Nothing soft or uncertain in the way he looked at her.

Predatory.Performative.Possessive.

She didn't move. Didn't even blink. But something in her coiled.

And then she felt him.

Eliot.

He didn't speak. But she noticed the way his fingers stopped moving, the way his shoulders set a little tighter. He didn't even look up right away—like maybe if he didn't see it, he wouldn't feel the twist in his gut.

But he felt it.

And she felt him feeling it.

His jaw clenched once, subtle.

Lena blinked slowly.

Not because she was angry. Not because she was unsettled.

Because she hadn't expected it.

That reaction.

That… edge.

Not jealousy.

Possession.

And not the kind that asks or demands or claims. The kind that guards.

Eliot hadn't touched her. Hadn't spoken up. But some part of him had still flared—quiet and hot—as if something precious had been left unguarded.

And something inside her stirred.

Something old. Something with claws and old teeth and a mouth full of night air.

The part of her that usually stayed buried.

Not this time.

"Does it bother you?" she asked.

Eliot blinked. "What?"

"When people look at me like that."

He hesitated. Then flushed. "I mean—yeah. Of course. It's rude. And… weird. And I—"

"Don't apologize," she said. "It's a question. Not a test."

He shifted in his seat. Rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah," he said again, quieter. "It bothers me."

"Why?"

He hesitated. Then, like the words didn't belong to him, he said, "Because you deserve better than that."

She stared at him.

Just stared.

Not because she didn't believe it.Because he meant it.

Not as a compliment. Not as an attempt to impress. He meant it in that soft, tired, bone-deep way people mean things when they're saying them before they can stop themselves.

She looked down at her cup. Her breath had hitched and she hadn't noticed.

The suited man ordered. Took his coffee. Left.

Never said a word. Never looked back.

Good.

The tension leaked from her limbs in slow drips. She hadn't even realized how sharp her nails had gotten beneath the skin. She let them go now. Let it all fall back into place.

Eliot leaned back a little in his chair as the door shut behind the man, like he'd just remembered how to breathe again.

"You always look like you know something I don't," he said.

"I usually do."

"About people?"

She shook her head once. "About them."

He tilted his head.

"People," she added, "are harder."

"You're one of them."

She met his gaze.

Didn't look away this time.

"That," she said softly, "depends on who's looking."