Cupid On East 89th Street

Ruthie’s POV

I should get a boyfriend ASAP. My life sucks but instead of thinking of the next dating apps or watching the news like Aiden says because a second girl is found dead, I'm staring at this guy.

Okay, first off, he’s holding the book upside down.

My favorite book.

Like, actually upside down. Not metaphorically, not figuratively—literally, the man is reading The Secret History as if that’s how it was meant to be read. Spine firm, fingers elegant, casual, too casual. Pages all the wrong way up and somehow he looks like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

I’m not even mad. I’m confused. Intrigued and fascinated. Like, what kind of person does that? Read wrong on purpose? Or maybe it’s a flex. Like, hey, look at me, I’m mysterious and unbothered by gravity.

He’s by the window of the café right across from where I work—publishing house, midtown. He’s got one leg crossed over the other, black coat so sharp it probably has an edge. Expensive energy. Not flashy. Just... intentional. Like he knows what kind of wine to order. Like he ironed his sheets this morning. Like his gloves fit.

He’s handsome, obviously. Ridiculously so. Like if someone made a cologne ad sentient. That kind of face will fit in. Hair slicked back but not greasy and effortless. Just a little messy like he ran a hand through it in frustration over something poetic. Jawline- like sculpture. Lips that kiss you to heaven and fine, blue eyes that I'm drooling already.

Forget what I came in here for.

Forget my own freaking name.

And then—

“I swear,” comes a voice behind me, dry and smug and too close, “if you start drooling over another man who owns artisanal coffee equipment, I’m finding a new lease.”

I don’t look back. I just smirk and say into my latte, “Relax. His wrists are too thin. Your Alpha-male complex is safe.”

Aiden thuds his coffee next to mine like he’s staging evidence. NYPD badge glinting from his belt casually, but it’s always there. He’s my roommate, best friend, personal reality check. Like a Labrador with sarcasm and a gun.

He picks up a magazine he won't read looking at me over his wire rimmed glasses.

“Stop staring at him. You have been doing that for five minutes.”

“People-watching,” I hum.

“Predator-watching,” he corrects, deadpan. “And for the record, he looked up twice. You flinched once.”

“Did not.”

“You did. You jumped like you got caught stealing.”

“You won't blame me, I'm boyfriend hunting.”

“You’re being reckless.”

That pulls me up short.

Just a little.

I glance out the window again. He’s still there. Still... gorgeous. Still reading upside-freaking-down.

Aiden shifts, voice dipping into his “I’m-being-serious-now” register. The one that sounds like bad news.

“A woman turned up dead last night. Two blocks from here.

Hung. Clean scene.. No motive. It's suicide but we thinks it's more than that. The killer left a code. The letter T behind her ears and one of her earrings is missing.” He pauses and makes slurpy sounds as he drinks his coffee.

My spine goes cold.

“No prints. No DNA. No anything. The police are confused. I’m not saying don’t flirt. I'm saying “be sharp as a serpent.”

I roll my eyes. “Wise as a serpent.” I correct.

“Whatever.”

“I’m just... I’m lonely.”

That last word kind of hangs. Like it slipped out before I could filter it.

Aiden blinks. “Wait. Are you actually opening up? Is this a, God, is this a feeling moment?”

“Shut up.”

He grins like a little shit. “I’m proud of you. This is character growth.”

“ You are ruining it.”

“I’ll stop. Proceed with your emotional monologue.”

I shoot him a glare. He raises his hands in fake surrender. “Fine. You deserve love. You’re brilliant. You’re picky. And sure, he’s... hot. In that haunted-art-thief kind of way.”

I laugh, too loud. “You’re jealous.”

He scoffs. “Of what? His cheekbones? Please.”

I glance out the window again. And this time he kind of notice and his beautiful blue eyes were on me. I tuck my hair behind my ears nervously.

Now he is holding eye contact like he’s done it a thousand times before. And then—he smiles. Just a little. Like the barest tug at the corner of his mouth. Like he’s saying yes, I saw you and no, I don’t mind.

And oh god.

I felt that.

Not panic. Not even lust, exactly. Just sweet ache. That deep, slow pull of wishing. Of what if I just walked across that street and said something? Anything?

And he smiles and gives me a seat and buys me coffee and then asks if I would be his girlfriend.

I feel like I belong to him already, like a book on his shelf. Like something he’d reach for without thinking.

In my head we live in a Brooklyn loft with exposed brick and way too many candles. He cooks in his coat. We drink red wine on rainy mornings. He quotes Neruda and kisses my wrist when I cry. I already see us saying our vow at the beach and us in Maldives and me already having his twins.

It's ridiculous. It's a fever dream. I don't have common sense, I know.

And I whisper, “He’s cute.”

Aiden doesn't even blink. “He’s hitman cute.”

I groan. “Why do you ruin everything?”

“Because you have terrible taste. Remember the poet who lived in his car? The DJ who added Y to night? The Vegan who sobbed over your cheese drawer and Carl?”

I wince. “It was imported cheese.”

“You have a type. It’s ‘emotionally unstable with a mysterious job and questionable morals.’”

I clutch my cup. “Okay but... what if I just talked to him? What’s the harm? He might be my date before August 1st.”

He arched his brows.

“World girlfriend day?”

He rolls his eyes.

“You are dating already, let me experience true love.”

Aiden sighs. And for a second, he’s not teasing. “I’m not stopping you. I’m just saying—something about him feels... off. Trust your gut.”

I nod. I mean, yeah. Of course. Except my gut is currently throwing confetti and playing romantic violin music.

He bumps my arm. “And hey. You’ve got me.” he winks.

“You also dip apples in tuna.”

“Creative protein solutions, thank you very much.”

I look out the window again—

But he’s gone.

Just like that.

Gone.

My chest deflates. Stupid. Disappointed.

I didn’t even catch his name. Didn’t get a clue. Just... that look. That sweet smile. The feeling like he saw right through me and liked what he saw anyway.

“Do you think I’ll ever find someone?” I ask, quieter than I mean to.

Aiden looks at me for a long time. “Yeah,” he says finally. “But not in someone who reads upside down.”

I smile. Small. Tired.

But yeah. Maybe he’s right.

But I still can't forget about him and his smile. Aiden is saying something about the police looking into the case and they are marveled at the killer's mode of killing and how he might strike again but I'm not listening.

I'm thinking of Mr. Upside Down.

That face. That moment.

And how a tiny, traitorous part of me already knows what our wedding hashtag would be.

God help me.