Chapter 2

The next morning, Elena woke with the echo of gray eyes lingering in her mind. The dream had been nothing more than a conversation, a quiet one—but his voice had followed her into waking. Calm. Confident. Curious.

“Maybe you just haven’t met the right stranger yet.”

She tried to shrug it off while brushing her teeth, while tying her hair into a loose bun, while pushing through the rush-hour tide of the subway. It was ridiculous, she told herself. She’d met him once. One night. One conversation. People didn’t live in your head after that.

And yet, by noon, she’d checked her phone twice. By two, three times.

No message. Of course not. They hadn’t exchanged numbers.

That was for the best.

By four o’clock, she’d convinced herself to stop thinking about him. She ducked into the café again—her café—seeking caffeine, not company. She told herself it was habit, not hope. The rain outside had softened into mist, and the hum of conversation wrapped her in something almost safe.

Until the bell over the door chimed.

She looked up—and her breath caught.

Adrian Blackwood stood in the doorway, rain droplets darkening the shoulders of his black coat. His gaze swept the room, unhurried, until it found her. The faintest smile touched his lips.

Elena’s pulse stumbled. It’s just coincidence, she told herself.

But when he walked straight toward her, confidence in every step, the air seemed to shift again.

“You,” she said, as he stopped beside her table.

“You sound surprised,” he replied easily, sliding into the chair across from her without asking. “I hoped I’d see you again.”

She blinked, torn between disbelief and something dangerously close to delight. “You hoped?”

He nodded. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to come back to the scene of the crime.”

She raised a brow. “Crime?”

“You stole my peace of mind last night.” His tone was light, teasing, but his gaze—steady and unwavering—made her heart stutter.

She laughed, trying to hide the flutter in her chest. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Saying things that sound like lines but don’t feel like them.”

“That’s because they’re not.” His eyes didn’t leave hers. “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Something about that seriousness, tucked inside charm, unsettled her. She looked down, pretending to focus on the steam rising from her cup. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Not sure,” Adrian said. “Just honest.”

Elena’s mouth curved, despite herself. “Honest about what?”

“That I wanted to see you again.” He said it simply, as if it were the most natural truth in the world.

Her pulse quickened. “You barely know me.”

“That’s the point.” His lips tilted faintly. “I want to.”

It was disarming—the way he said it without hesitation. His presence felt deliberate, grounding, like the rain outside had found its rhythm again. She wanted to resist, to remind herself she didn’t fall this easily. But she couldn’t deny how good it felt to be seen.

“Alright,” she said, folding her arms. “If you want to know me, ask something.”

His eyes brightened, that precise kind of attention that made her skin hum. “Favorite book?”

Elena blinked. “That’s your question?”

“It tells me a lot.”

She hesitated, then smiled. “Jane Eyre. Don’t laugh.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “You like women who fight for themselves.”

She tilted her head. “And you? What about you?”

“The Count of Monte Cristo.”

Her brows lifted. “Revenge and betrayal. That’s…dark.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice softer now. “Or maybe it’s about endurance. About patience. Waiting for the truth to surface.”

A small shiver slid down her spine. Something in his tone was too measured, too personal.

But before she could ask, he smiled again, and the moment passed like a cloud over sunlight.

“Your turn,” she said, trying to lighten the air. “Why are you really here?”

“I told you,” he said. “To see you.”

“You make it sound like a mission.”

“Maybe it is.”

Elena laughed, a little breathless. “You’re intense, you know that?”

“I can slow down,” he offered. “If you want me to.”

She hesitated. Then: “No. It’s fine.”

And it was—mostly. His intensity felt like a mirror held up to her loneliness. For months, she’d felt invisible; now she couldn’t escape his gaze if she tried.

They talked for hours. About her work in publishing. About the endless rejection letters that stacked like paperweight on her hope. About how the city could feel too full and too empty all at once. He listened with rare focus, his silence not passive but deliberate, as though he was collecting her words, storing them carefully somewhere inside.

At one point she said, “You don’t talk about yourself much.”

He smiled faintly. “There’s not much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that.”

He studied her for a long moment, then said, “Some stories aren’t ready to be told.”

The words lingered between them, unsettling and oddly tender. She didn’t press. Some wounds didn’t need names.

Outside, dusk had turned to evening before she realized. “God, it’s late.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?” he asked.

She hesitated. “That’s not necessary.”

“Maybe not,” he said, standing, “but it’s raining again.”

And it was—the soft, silver kind of rain that blurred streetlights into halos. Without waiting for her answer, Adrian opened his umbrella and held it over her as they stepped outside.

Their shoulders brushed as they walked. The rhythm of the rain, the hush of passing cars, the distant hum of music from a bar—it all folded around them, strangely intimate.

“You don’t have to do this,” Elena murmured.

“I know,” he said. “But I want to.”

His words sank deeper than they should have. She tried to laugh, to deflect. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” he said quietly.

Something about that answer—so sure, so final—made her glance up. But he was looking ahead, not at her, his expression unreadable.

At her building, she turned to face him. “Thank you. For the walk. And the company.”

“It was my pleasure.” He smiled then, small and real. “I’ll see you soon.”

She blinked. “You will?”

“Yes.” He said it with such certainty that it didn’t sound like a hope—it sounded like a promise.

“Goodnight, Adrian,” she whispered.

“Goodnight, Elena.”

She walked up the steps, forcing herself not to look back. But halfway to the door, she did—and found him still standing there, motionless under the umbrella, his gaze fixed on her.

There was nothing menacing in his posture, nothing overt.

And yet, her heartbeat tripped, uneven.

Inside her apartment, she leaned against the door and pressed a hand to her chest, laughing at herself.

You’re overthinking it, she thought. He’s just…different.

Still, as the rain whispered against the glass, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something invisible had shifted.

That her life—so quiet, so ordinary—had tilted into something she couldn’t quite name.

And though she didn’t know it yet, the moment she let him walk her home was the moment she stepped off solid ground.

Because sometimes, the right stranger isn’t right at all.