Chapter 2: The Meet-Cute
The napkin sat on her table like it was glowing.
Camille picked it up, then put it down. Picked it up again, held it to the light. Daniel. Written in slanted, easy script. A phone number. No smiley face. No weird note. Just simple. Clean. Confident.
She folded it once, twice, tucked it in her coat pocket like it was something secret.
Then she left.
The snow outside was still falling. It stuck in her hair, melted down her cheeks. She didn’t care. Not that night.
Because someone had looked at her and meant it.
Two days passed.
She didn’t call.
She almost did—twice. Once after a long meeting at work where her boss corrected her grammar in front of the whole team. Once while brushing her teeth and staring at her reflection like it might blink first.
But she didn’t.
She wasn’t that girl. Not anymore. Not the one who chased. Not the one who begged for love.
So, when she walked into the café again and saw him already sitting at the window, reading the same book—
Her heart just stopped.
“Oh, you again,” Daniel said, grinning like he’d been waiting the whole time.
Camille tried to act cool. “Don’t tell me you live here.”
“Not quite. But close.”
She tilted her head. “Same book?”
“Same story,” he said. “New perspective.”
She slid into the seat across from him without being invited. “That’s deep.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m deep.”
“Or maybe you just want to look deep.”
He laughed. “Busted.”
She couldn’t help smiling. “So, this is your spot too?”
“It is now.”
The barista brought over a latte for her without asking.
“See? They already know your order,” Daniel said. “You’re a regular.”
Camille blew on her drink. “Don’t judge me.”
“I’m not. I admire loyalty.”
She sipped and let the silence settle for a beat. Then—
“So... Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“What you said last time. About this being the start of something.”
He leaned forward, eyes serious for the first time. “Every word.”
Her cheeks went hot. “That’s either the best line I’ve heard in years... or the worst.”
“Let’s pretend it’s the best. Makes for a better story.”
They sat like that—talking, teasing, circling each other with smiles and words—for hours. He told her he ran a design firm. That he liked jazz and hated olives. That he once climbed a mountain just to prove he could, then cried the whole way down.
She told him about the publishing house. About her late-night editing. Her dog-eared journal. Her mother.
When she mentioned her mom, he looked at her like he actually cared.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
Camille nodded. “It’s okay. It still feels raw. Some days are better than others.”
He reached across the table and touched her hand. Not in a way that asked for anything—just in a way that said, I see you.
When they stood to leave, he didn’t ask if he could walk her home.
He just did.
They walked slowly. Her boots squeaked on the icy sidewalk.
“You’re not like other guys,” she said quietly.
“Because I like jazz and hate olives?”
“Because you actually listen.”
He smiled. “I don’t want to miss anything.”
At her building’s front steps, she turned toward him, searching his eyes.
“Thanks. For today.”
He tilted his head. “Can I see you again?”
Camille didn’t answer right away.
“I don’t want to rush anything,” she said.
“I’m not asking you to.”
She bit her lip. “Okay.”
“Okay?” he echoed.
She nodded. “Okay.”
He stepped back, like he wasn’t sure whether to kiss her or not. Then—
“Goodnight, Camille.”
“Goodnight, Daniel.”
She stood there, watching him go.
He didn’t look back.
But somehow, she knew—he wanted to.
She went upstairs and pressed her back against the door once it shut behind her.
A part of her wanted to scream into a pillow. Another part wanted to cry. But mostly?
She wanted to see him again.
The next morning, she woke up smiling.
Work dragged by, but in the kind of way that felt warm. Like waiting for something good.
She checked her phone twice. No messages.
Three times. Still nothing.
By four o’clock, she gave in and texted:
"Same place tomorrow?"
He replied instantly.
"I'll be waiting."
And he was.
This time, he brought two lattes.
“Thought I’d surprise you,” he said, handing her one.
“You remembered.”
“I remember everything about you.”
“You’re smooth, you know that?”
“I’m sincere.”
Camille sipped. “Even worse.”
They talked again. About books. Music. Regret. Why some people leave. Why others never do.
At one point, he asked, “Do you believe in fate?”
She laughed. “Sometimes.”
“What about now?”
She looked at him. Really looked. The angles of his face. The calm in his eyes.
“Maybe.”
They walked again that night. Her fingers brushed his. He didn’t pull away.
At her door, he didn’t kiss her.
Just tucked her hair behind her ear.
“Sleep well.”
She did.
For the first time in months.
