Chapter 8 008
I spent the next day trying to be normal. I worked on a commission—a detailed study of foxgloves for a gardening magazine. I did my laundry in the basement, jumping at every sound. I replied to Felix’s message with a polite, friendly note and a picture of a daffodil sketch, feeling like a fraud with every keystroke.
The strange energy from the trash chute hallway clung to me. It was like the air in my apartment had been permanently altered, charged with a silent, waiting question.
By evening, I couldn’t stand it. I needed out. I needed people, noise, life that made sense.
“I’m going to that new bistro on Elm,” I announced to Amanda over the phone. “The one with the shared tables. Want to come?”
“Can’t. I have a virtual date with a guy who says his spirit animal is a spreadsheet,” she groaned. “Go! Take a book. Be around humans. Report back if you see anyone whose spirit animal is, like, a wounded poet.”
I put on a simple blue dress, something that made me feel more like a person and less like a ball of frayed nerves. I checked the peephole before I left. The coast was clear.
The bistro was perfect. Warm, noisy, full of the clatter of pans and the buzz of a dozen conversations. I got a seat at the long communal table next to an older couple debating the best type of olive oil. I ordered a pasta dish and opened my book, letting the normalcy soak into me.
I was three pages in when the chair opposite me scraped back.
I glanced up, a polite smile ready for a stranger.
It died on my lips.
Leo Thorne stood there, hesitating for a fraction of a second before sitting down. He wore a dark jacket over a charcoal sweater, looking more like a magazine model than a man about to eat pasta. He held a glass of water.
“Chloe,” he said. His voice was a low rumble that somehow carved through the bistro’s noise just for me. “This seat… is it taken?”
My brain scrambled. This couldn’t be a coincidence. This city had a thousand restaurants. “No. It’s… it’s free.” I gestured weakly. “Do you… come here often?”
“First time,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the room before settling back on me. “I was walking. I saw you through the window.”
He saw me. Through the window. And he came in. The directness was staggering.
“Oh.” I didn’t know what else to say. My heart had started its now-familiar, frantic rhythm. “It’s a good place. The food is… consistent.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “Consistent is underrated.”
A server appeared, and Leo ordered the same pasta dish I’d ordered, without even looking at the menu. He’d seen my plate. Of course he had.
The server left, and an awkward silence descended. The couple next to us had stopped talking, suddenly very interested in their bread basket. I felt like we were on a stage.
“How is the plant?” he asked, filling the silence.
“Good. It’s happy on the windowsill. Thank you again.”
He nodded. “I’m glad.” He took a sip of water, his eyes never leaving my face. He wasn’t trying to make small talk. He was just… looking. As if my reactions were the most fascinating thing in the room.
I had to say something. “So, you just walk around the city at night?”
“I find it helps me think. The movement. The patterns of people.” He paused, his finger tracing the condensation on his glass. “It is easier to observe when you are in motion.”
Observe. The word sent a shiver down my spine. “What do you observe?”
“Everything.” The word was simple, absolute. “The man by the door is waiting for a lover who is late. He checks his phone every forty-seven seconds. The chef is annoyed with the new waiter. The woman at the bar is celebrating a promotion, but she is worried about the responsibilities.”
I followed his subtle glances. It was all true. The man by the door looked at his phone. The chef scowled as a waiter fumbled. The woman at the bar smiled, but her foot tapped a nervous rhythm.
“How can you possibly know that?” I whispered, my book forgotten.
He turned his full attention back to me. “Micro-expressions. Posture. The rhythm of a breath. Most people broadcast their states constantly. They just don’t know how to read the signals.”
“And you do.”
“It is a necessary skill.” He said it without arrogance, as if stating he knew how to drive a car.
Our food arrived, a temporary distraction. We ate in a silence that was strangely comfortable, punctuated by the sounds of the bistro. He ate with a focused efficiency, but his awareness of me was a palpable thing. If I reached for my water, his eyes tracked the movement. If I shifted in my seat, he stilled.
“You’re doing it again,” I said finally, putting my fork down.
His brows lifted. “Doing what?”
“The intense observation thing. You said you’d work on it.”
He considered this, then gave a slow, deliberate nod. “You are correct. My apologies. It is… difficult. With you.”
“Why with me?”
He set his own fork down, his food only half-eaten. He leaned forward, just slightly, and the noise of the restaurant seemed to fade again. “Because you are a contradiction, Chloe. You are… quiet, but not simple. You are cautious, but there is a strength in you that is unmovable. You try to be invisible in the hallway, but you burn like a beacon. It is… compelling. And frustrating. I cannot get a clear read.”
His words left me breathless. No one had ever seen me like that. Broken down into pieces that somehow added up to a mystery he couldn’t solve. He found me frustrating.
“Maybe you shouldn’t try to read me,” I said, my voice softer than I intended. “Maybe I’m just a person. Not a puzzle.”
He held my gaze, and for the first time, I saw a crack in his own controlled facade. A flicker of something raw and weary. “What if I told you,” he said, his voice dropping so low I had to lean in to hear, “that I have spent my entire life learning to read every room, every person, every potential threat? It is not a choice. It is my nature. And you… you are the first quiet room that feels like a sanctuary, but whose walls I cannot see through.”
The confession hung between us, intimate and shocking. It was more than he’d ever said. It spoke of a lifetime of vigilance, of a burden I couldn’t imagine.
I didn’t know how to answer. I just stared at him, lost in the storm of his eyes.
The moment was shattered by the sharp, cheerful ringing of my phone on the table. The screen lit up, illuminating the dim space between us.
It was a call. The photo that flashed up was a selfie of me and Felix, from a charity event months ago. His arm was around me, both of us grinning.
The name FELIX flashed boldly across the screen.
Leo’s eyes dropped to the phone. I saw his expression change. The raw openness vanished, sealed behind a wall of impassive granite in an instant. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
He leaned back in his chair, the connection broken. “You should take that,” he said, his voice now cool, detached. “It seems important.”
“It’s not—” I started, but he was already signaling for the check.
“I have an early morning,” he said, not looking at me as he pulled out his wallet. He left far too much cash on the table, covering both our meals. “Thank you for the company, Chloe.”
And before I could say another word, before I could even dismiss Felix’s call, he was on his feet, a dark shadow moving through the warm light of the bistro, and out the door into the night.
I sat there, the phone finally going silent, surrounded by the happy noise of strangers, feeling more alone than I ever had in my life. He had seen Felix’s name. And in that single, fleeting moment, I had seen something in Leo Thorne I hadn’t expected.
Not anger. Not jealousy.
It was hurt.