WHERE EYES MEET

Sophie arrived at the coffee shop five minutes earlier than usual.

She told herself it was just habit. A small routine in the middle of her strange, unraveling world. But deep down, she knew she was hoping.

She took her usual seat near the window, where the morning light spilled over her table, warming the back of her hand as she stirred her drink.

Time passed. She looked at her watch once. Then twice. She picked at a muffin she didn't want. Her eyes kept drifting to the door.

Then he came.

James.

He walked in slowly, his steps deliberate, his eyes scanning the room. When he saw her, his lips curved into a soft, almost surprised smile.

He approached the table.

"Am I disturbing you?" he asked gently.

Sophie looked up at him, caught off guard. "Not really."

He raised an eyebrow, his smile lingering. "Were you waiting for me to come?"

"Of course not," she said quickly, a little too quickly.

He didn't press.

He just smiled and pulled out the chair across from her.

She watched him settle in, and then she said, trying to sound casual, "I thought about what you said. And... there's nothing bad in being friends with an immortal."

Her voice was light, but her eyes were serious.

James studied her face, then gave a slow, genuine nod. "Friends," he said. "I'd like that."

Sophie smiled.

She launched into a story about a cat she'd seen on the way, how it had stared at her like it knew all her secrets. Then she talked about a dream she had, something with floating teacups and lavender fields. Her words flowed easily now.

And through it all, James just listened.

He didn't interrupt. Didn't shift away.

He just kept staring at her, quietly, like the sight of her alone was enough to make the world worth staying in.

The coffee shop hummed softly with background chatter, the clinking of cups and the low buzz of music, but they seemed to exist in a bubble outside of it. Every time Sophie laughed—and she did, often—James's expression would soften, like someone gently exhaling after holding his breath for too long.

"So," she said after a while, "what does someone like you do when they're not saving damsels or brooding in dark corners?"

James chuckled lightly. "I read. A lot. I paint sometimes. I keep journals—old habits from another time."

"Journals? Like leather-bound with actual ink?"

"Yes. I like how ink remembers things."

Sophie took a sip of her coffee, studying him. "Do you remember everything?"

He hesitated. "Too much."

There was a pause between them, but not uncomfortable. Sophie leaned her chin on her hand, watching the way the light touched the edge of his cheekbone.

"Do you regret it?" she asked. "Being what you are?"

"Sometimes," he said. "Especially when the world moves on without you."

She nodded slowly. "I think I get that."

They talked for nearly two hours.

About cities James had lived in, though he left names vague. About Sophie's favorite books and how she always read the endings first, just in case. About death, and what it meant to remember more than you forget. And about life—strangely, wonderfully, imperfectly human life.

At one point, Sophie said, "I used to be scared of dying. Not in the screaming, crying way. But quietly. Like knowing there's a sunset you'll never see. A laugh you'll never hear again."

James didn't respond right away.

Then he said, "I've seen many sunsets. Heard many laughs. But the ones that stay with me... are the ones that surprised me."

She looked at him. "Do I surprise you?"

"Every moment."

She smiled again, softer this time. And James, for the first time in years, felt warmth he didn't have to fake.

Eventually, the barista cleared their cups, and the noise of the shop started to grow louder as the lunch crowd trickled in.

"I should go soon," Sophie said.

"Of course."

She hesitated. "But I'd like to do this again. Soon."

James nodded. "Whenever you're ready."

As she stood, he rose too. She picked up her bag, then turned back and added, "And thank you. For not giving up."

He bowed his head slightly. "Thank you for not running."

Sophie walked out of the coffee shop, the bell above the door jingling gently.

James remained behind, still staring at the chair she had left.

Still seeing her smile.

Still remembering the sound of her voice.

And for the first time in centuries, hope felt real.

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