He walked into The Grind.

  It was early afternoon, earlier than her usual time. He approached the counter, ordered a black coffee he didn't want, and tried to look casual as he asked the barista—a young woman in her twenties with a nose ring and kind eyes—about the girl in the corner.

  "The one with the dark hair? Ancient eyes?" The barista's name tag read "Chloe," and she looked at him with mild curiosity. "I dunno what you mean about ancient eyes. That’s sounds freaky. But I know she's a regular. Comes in most days, sits at that same table, orders tea and reads for hours. I don't know her name, though. She keeps to herself."

  A dead end. He thanked her, took his coffee, and left without drinking it.

  But he couldn't stop thinking about her. Couldn't stop seeing those eyes every time he closed his own. Couldn't stop feeling like he was missing something essential, something his rational mind couldn't access but his soul knew.

  A week later, he made a decision.

  He told himself it was just coffee. Just a conversation. Just the normal human interaction Meredith was always nagging him about. He'd walk in, order his coffee, and if she happened to be there, he'd say hello. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  He had his driver take him to The Grind that day. Sat in the back of the car for a full five minutes, staring at the cafe's unassuming facade, breathing slowly and deliberately. Then he got out, walked to the door, and pushed it open.

  The bell chimed.

  He stepped inside.

  The bell chimed overhead, a small, ordinary sound that seemed to echo in his ears like a summons. He kept his eyes forward, fixed on the counter, on the menu board, on anything but the corner table he knew she occupied. He could feel her presence like a pressure change in the air, a warmth at the edge of his awareness that made his skin prickle.

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  Don't look. Just order your coffee. Get in, get out, like any normal person.

  He walked to the counter, placed his order with the barista— Chloe the earlier barista with the nose ring who smiled at him blankly, utterly unaware that he was fighting the most important battle of his life. Black coffee. Small. To go. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, too calm, too controlled, like someone else was speaking through his mouth.

  But as fate would have it—as if the universe itself had grown tired of his avoidance—he had to turn. The pickup counter was perpendicular to where she sat. To collect his coffee, he had to face that direction.

  He turned.

  And there she was.

  Sitting at her usual seat by the window, a book open in front of her while her friend—the blonde with the pink-streaked hair—talked animatedly about something, gesturing with her whole body. But she wasn't looking at her friend. She wasn't looking at her book. The late evening light caught the edges of her profile, painting her in gold and shadow, making her look like something from another world entirely.

  She was staring at him.

  When he turned, when his gaze finally found her, she was already there. Already watching. As if she'd known he was coming. As if she'd been waiting for this moment just as long as he had. And now she knew—she knew—that he was standing there, frozen, his soul laid bare before those ancient, impossible eyes.

  Her gaze met his across the crowded room.

  And the world—

  The world stopped.

  Not figuratively. Not poetically. It stopped. The murmur of conversations faded to a distant hum. The hiss of the espresso machine became the whisper of wind through ancient pines. The smell of coffee dissolved into something else—clean snow, cold starlight, the crisp air of a mountain peak he'd never climbed but somehow knew in his bones.

  He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

  For one endless second, he was somewhere else—on a mountain, in the snow, under a sky full of stars that seemed close enough to touch. He felt cold wind on his face, heard a voice speaking words in a language he shouldn't understand but somehow did, tasted something sweet and wild on his tongue.

  And then he was back in the coffee shop, and she was still looking at him, and the terror of it—the sheer, overwhelming impossibility of what he was feeling—seized him by the throat.

  He turned. Walked out. The barista called after him—"Sir? Your coffee?"—but the voice was already distant, swallowed by the roaring in his ears. He pushed through the door, the bell chiming overhead like an accusation, and kept walking. Past the windows, past the tables, past everything that reminded him of those eyes.