James didn’t kid himself. He was older, worn at the edges, and carved out of too many years in a city that didn’t know how to sleep. He didn’t chase things anymore. He didn’t need to.

But she? She walked in like a storm dressed in quiet thunder—sharp heels, dark eyes, and that smile that lingered just a second too long.

She wasn’t subtle.

Not with the way she leaned a little closer than necessary. Not with the way her fingers brushed his sleeve when she passed the coffee. Not with the way she looked at him like he wasn’t a relic—but a weapon. Polished. Dangerous. Still sharp.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

She made it very clear what she liked.

And James, against all better judgment, didn’t look away.

Not this time.