Rain fell in a lazy drizzle the next morning, painting the windows with soft streaks. The city, as always, moved on—cars honking, people rushing, umbrellas blooming like impatient flowers. Inside the corner café on 5th and Lane, the world slowed.
Lena sat by the window, her fingers wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, steam curling into the air like a whispered promise. She wasn't supposed to be there. She had a meeting two blocks away in twenty minutes, but something about the rain made her pause. She needed this moment of silence, of something real.
The bell above the door chimed.
She didn't look up at first. Just another customer, probably drenched and cranky. But then she heard his voice—low, tired, amused.
"Still playing hide and seek with the rain, huh?"
Her gaze snapped up.
Jace. The same worn leather jacket. The same careless smirk. The same storm behind his eyes.
Lena blinked. "You again?"
He gave her a lazy grin. "Don't sound so thrilled."
She didn't know what to say. The city was massive—millions of people, thousands of streets—and yet here he was again, the boy who'd helped her find her sketchbook just two nights ago, now casually ordering a black coffee like fate had a sense of humor.
"Let me guess," he said, sliding into the seat across from her without asking. "You're hiding from something."
"Work," she muttered. "Life. Deadlines. Take your pick."
Jace took a sip of his coffee, wincing slightly. "Too hot. Just like this city."
She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her lips. He noticed.
"You smile like you're not used to it," he said.
Lena looked out the window, watching the raindrops slide down like tiny regrets. "I'm not."
There was a beat of silence. Then he asked, "What's in the sketchbook?"
She stiffened. "You remember that?"
"Hard to forget a girl running down 8th like her life depended on a spiral-bound notebook."
She hesitated, then reached into her bag and slid it onto the table. The edges were frayed, the cover stained with ink and memory. Jace didn't open it—just rested his fingers on top.
"You draw the city," he said, more of a realization than a question.
"Not the buildings," she replied. "The people. The moments. The parts no one notices."
Jace looked at her, really looked, and something unspoken passed between them—recognition, maybe. Two people trying to hold onto pieces of themselves in a city that never stopped moving.
Then he leaned back, his expression unreadable. "You ever draw yourself?"
Lena hesitated. "No. I don't think I'd know how."
He tilted his head. "Maybe someone else will."
Before she could reply, he stood, dropping a few crumpled bills on the table. "I'm late," he said. "But I'll see you around."
She wanted to say something. Ask him where he was going. If he believed in fate. If he'd ever felt like the city swallowed him whole. But all she said was, "Yeah. See you."
And just like that, he was gone—out into the rain, vanishing into the crowd.
But this time, she had a feeling it wouldn't be the last.