they weren’t looking for love.

neither of you were. after too many endings that left invisible bruises, you’d both made peace with the thought that maybe “love” was something you’d already used up. words didn’t charm you anymore, promises felt like echoes, and new faces blurred into the same dull rhythm of almosts.

and yet… fate likes to play games.

in that little coffee shop you went to just to hide from the noise, to scroll aimlessly and breathe in peace, you spilled coffee on him. hot, dark, and instant regret.

“oh, damn, i’m sorry!” you blurted, clutching napkins like they could save your life.

he looked up — messy hair, startled eyes, and then that slow, amused smile. “well, if that’s your way of meeting guys, it worked,” he said, half teasing, half kind.

you laughed, because what else could you do? and he did too. it was too real, too easy, like your laughter recognized each other before you did.

you walked away thinking it was just a moment. just one of those passing scenes that stay sweet and unfinished.

but the town was small. or maybe the universe was just stubborn.

you saw him again at a friend’s party — across the room, his eyes caught yours, and there it was again. the tiny spark you didn’t want to name. another time, another “oh, hi,” another conversation that went on longer than either of you planned.

you never tried to meet again, but somehow you did. again and again. until one night, the club lights blurred everything else out.

the music was loud, the air heavy, and when your eyes met, there was no more pretending. the kiss felt like something that had been waiting, like an unfinished thought finally spoken out loud.

later, his room. monaco outside the window, the hum of the city alive and soft. you lay there, the blanket pulled over you, your hair tangled across the pillow. his fingers moved gently through it, like he was afraid that if he stopped, you’d disappear.

he whispered into the dark, almost to himself, “i didn’t think i’d fall in love like a boy again.”

you didn’t answer. you just reached for his hand, your fingers finding his, a small squeeze — quiet, certain.

and that was enough.

because the real thing never arrives with fireworks. it starts softly. almost like an accident.