The Meeting

Alyssa

The morning air pressed damp and heavy against Alyssa’s skin as she stepped outside.

The rain had thinned to a drizzle, but the sky remained choked with low gray clouds.

Sidewalks gleamed wet underfoot.

Cars hissed by on the slick street, their headlights dim behind veils of mist.

She kept her head down, her movements careful, blending into the slow shuffle of early risers heading to work.

Every sound seemed sharper, the creak of old shop signs, the soft splash of water under tires, the distant bark of a stray dog.

The café sat two blocks away, tucked between a laundromat and a secondhand bookstore.

Its neon "OPEN" sign buzzed faintly, the warm glow pooling onto the damp sidewalk like a small lighthouse in the gloom.

She slipped inside, the bell over the door giving a soft jingle that seemed too loud.

Warmth and the rich scent of brewing coffee wrapped around her, sinking into her clothes.

The place was half-empty. A woman hunched over a laptop in the corner. A man scrolled on his phone near the window.

Nothing out of place.

Alyssa exhaled slowly, shoulders loosening a fraction.

She stepped toward the counter, the menu overhead blurring slightly as her tired eyes scanned it.

Behind her, the door opened again—the soft rustle of the bell barely registering.

But something... shifted.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled.

Not fear exactly. Not recognition.

Something heavier. Denser.

She kept her eyes forward, forcing her body to stay still, casual.

The feeling grew stronger—like the charge before a lightning strike.

A tug somewhere deep inside her, faint but undeniable.

The barista’s voice broke through the fog.

"What can I get you?"

Alyssa blinked.

"Just a coffee,please," she said, her voice rougher than she intended. "Black."

While the barista moved to fill the order, she dared a glance over her shoulder.

A man stood near the door, shaking rain from his dark jacket.

Tall, broad-shouldered.

Face shadowed by the low light.

Something about him dragged her attention.

An ache she didn’t understand stirred in her chest.

She turned away quickly, heat blooming under her skin.

Nothing, It was nothing, it was just a man.

The coffee appeared in front of her. She fumbled for cash, muttering thanks, and retreated to a small table by the window.

Cup in hand, she stared out at the misty street, pretending she hadn’t noticed anything at all.

"I’ll take a large Americano, please," the mysterious stranger said.

Alyssa froze, coffee cup halfway to her lips.

Goosebumps broke across her arms, prickling along her skin as if some invisible hand had brushed against her.

She lowered the cup slowly, her heart stumbling in her chest.

What was happening to her?

This wasn’t normal.

Alyssa Hart does not react to men like this—never had. She never got breathless over strangers. She never gets rattled.

But something about that voice...

It curled around her, tugging at something deep inside she didn’t want to name.

She shifted slightly, pretending to stir her coffee, and risked a glance from the corner of her eye.

The man took the table next to hers, pulling out the chair with an easy, unhurried motion.

He pushed back his hood, the fabric falling away to reveal a face that sent a sharp gasp rushing to the back of her throat.

She caught herself just in time, covering it with a quick sip of her drink.

He looked carved from shadow and fire—

Hair so dark it bordered on black, damp strands falling over a strong forehead.

His jaw was square, dusted with the barest hint of stubble.

And his eyes—

Even from this distance, they held her captive.

Dark.

So dark they looked almost black, swallowing the dim light around them.

Eyes that didn’t just see, but searched.

Alyssa dropped her gaze, heat blooming at the back of her neck.

What was wrong with her?

It was just a man.

Cole

Cole had spotted her again, moving along the slick sidewalk below his balcony.

Even from a distance, he recognized her immediately.

The woman from the night before.

The woman whose scent still haunted him.

She moved with a quiet confidence that drew his eyes like a magnet.

Not flashy. Not careless.

Composed. Controlled.

But even now, Cole could see the tension wound tight beneath her polished exterior—the kind of tension born from survival, not vanity.

She was beautiful in a way that stole breath without trying.

Hair hastily tied up, legs bare beneath snug black shorts, an oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, exposing just enough skin to make his wolf stir restlessly.

Zodiac rumbled low inside him, restless and frustrated.

Cole raked a hand through his hair, brushing it into some semblance of order, and pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt.

A rain parka thrown over it completed the look—nothing to stand out, nothing to draw attention.

He told himself it wasn’t stalking.

It was protection.

It was a curiosity.

It was a need.

He followed at a distance, boots silent on the wet pavement, keeping to the edges of the street.

Close enough to see her.

Far enough not to spook her.

The café she entered was small, tucked between forgotten storefronts.

He watched her slip inside, the bell over the door giving a faint chime.

Cole waited a few heartbeats longer, giving her space, then stepped in after her.

Warmth wrapped around him instantly, the scent of brewing coffee, cinnamon, rain-soaked asphalt... and her.

Stronger now.

Sharper.

He froze for a breath, soaking it in like a drowning man gasping for air.

She stood at the counter, ordering in a voice too soft to catch from where he stood.

But when she glanced sideways, her gaze brushing over him like a physical touch, every muscle in his body locked tight.

She saw him.

Even if she didn’t know it yet, she felt him.

The barista called out his presence, snapping him out of his daze.

"What can I get you?"

“ I’ll take a large Americano, please." Cole answered, his voice rougher than intended.

She flinched slightly at the sound, turning her face away too quickly.

He paid for his drink, his mind a storm of instinct and restraint.

He couldn’t approach.

Not yet.

Still, when he saw her settle into a table by the window, her shoulders tight but composed, he found himself moving...

Not towards the exit.

Towards her.