Deliberately late.
It wasn’t a coincidence; it was choreography.
She had planned this moment for days. The outfit. The timing. The fragrance. The silence.
The cashmere knit hugged her just right, its soft V-back revealing a sliver of skin, enough to tempt, never sufficient to tell. Her long brown trousers draped with quiet elegance into her boots, the kind that made her legs look endless and her confidence undeniable. The perfume, his favourite though he didn’t know she remembered, clung to her like a whisper.
At exactly ten o’clock, she drove in.
The music played low and steady, matching the quiet rhythm of her anticipation. The day was bright but not blinding, warm enough to skip the jacket she’d usually grab. She wanted him to see her. All of her.
And when she pulled into the car park, there it was.
That look.
The slight drop of his jaw. The quick inhale. The startled pause before he tried to gather himself.
She saw it all.
She didn’t smile. She didn’t even blink.
But inside, she was radiant.
That look was the moment she had dressed for.
That was the message: elegant, wordless, devastating.
She stepped out slowly, deliberately walking around the car instead of leaning in to grab her bag. She wanted him to see the full sweep of her silhouette, the way her top dipped at the back, the way the boots lengthened her stride.
She walked in like she was gliding through a scene she had rehearsed a thousand times.
And she didn’t look back.
The rest of the morning unfolded quietly. She worked, smiled when she needed to, and carried on as though her heart hadn’t skipped a beat in the car park. But underneath that composure, she could still feel his eyes from earlier, lingering in her memory like perfume in the air.
Later that afternoon, her friend appeared, smiling about the food and fresh air. They decided to step out for lunch. She grabbed her things, grateful for the chance to move, to breathe, to reset the day.
And then, as if fate had been waiting for its cue, he walked in.
Of course he did.
She knew that look, too. She knew he would be there.
He wanted to see her again.
He said hi.
She replied, polite, cool, immaculate, then turned back to her friend as though he wasn’t there.
She picked up the food she had brought with her, calm and unhurried, and walked past him to where she and her friend had decided to sit. She didn’t rush. She didn’t flinch. Every movement was measured, deliberate.
She could tell that little play had stung him. He lingered for a moment, unsure, then sat backing her direction, close enough to hear her, far enough to pretend he wasn’t listening.
As their conversation grew livelier, the sound of her laughter filled the room, light, effortless, free. She noticed the way it unsettled him. He wasn’t sure what they were laughing about, but he couldn’t ignore the sound.
When he finished his food, she saw the faintest hesitation in his movements, as though deciding whether to back her or sit in a way that she remained in his line of sight. He chose the latter.
He eventually left but returned a few minutes later with a lady.
Of course. A counterplay.
She smiled into her pie. Cute. Predictable. Transparent.
He was trying too hard to appear unaffected, to make it look casual, but even while talking to the lady, his eyes kept shifting just enough to find her in his line of sight.
She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just kept talking, smiling, glowing.
Eventually, he left.
And when he did, the countdown began.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
Then the phone buzzed.
A message.
She didn’t open it. Not yet.
She waited until she got home, until the heels were off, until the air was quiet and she could savour it.
Because this moment wasn’t about answering.
It was about waiting.
About letting him sit in the same silence he had once left her in.
And maybe you’re wondering what he ever did to deserve all this.
Come back for the next part.
It all began with the coffee they never had.
Read the Intro by clicking the link: The coffee we never had
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