You Could Almost Call It Coincidence

Chapter Two – You Could Almost Call It Coincidence

Lucien showed up the next night.

He told himself it was just a convenient spot. Familiar. Comfortable. He even convinced himself for a few minutes that he might leave early.

But when she walked in—same black coat, same calm like she carried her own silence—he knew damn well why he was really there.

She didn’t look surprised to see him. Didn’t smile, either. Just took the seat next to him like she was picking up a conversation they hadn’t finished.

For a while, neither of them said anything.

Then—

“You always drink scotch?” she asked, nodding toward his glass.

Lucien glanced down at it, then back at her.

“Only when I want to remember something. Or forget something.”

She huffed a quiet breath through her nose. Almost a laugh.

“That covers most nights, doesn’t it?”

“More than I care to admit.”

She took a sip of her own drink. He still didn’t know what it was. She hadn’t told him. And weirdly, he didn’t mind.

“You always come alone?” he asked.

“Always,” she said, without hesitation.

“People tend to ask questions when they stick around too long.”

“And you don’t like questions?”

She shrugged.

“I like quiet more.”

There was something in her voice—not sharp, not cold—but practiced. Controlled. Like someone who used to be soft but had learned to tuck that softness somewhere nobody could reach it.

Lucien studied her face for a second longer than he should have. She caught it.

“You staring, or just thinking too loud?”

He smirked, looked away.

“Bit of both.”

She leaned back slightly, eyes on him now.

“What do you think I do?”

That caught him off guard.

“What?”

“You’ve been watching. Don’t pretend you haven’t. So what’s your guess?”

Lucien tilted his glass in a small circle, thinking.

“You don’t look bored. That rules out most office jobs. You sit like someone who doesn’t get surprised often, and you walk like you’ve been followed before.”

A beat. She didn’t confirm or deny anything.

“So?” she asked.

“So… something quiet. Something dangerous.”

Her eyes didn’t change.

“Interesting guess.”

“Am I wrong?”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she asked,

“What about you? What do you do when you’re not drinking scotch and psychoanalyzing strangers?”

Lucien smiled faintly.

“I make messes.”

“And clean them up?”

“Depends on the mess.”

That got the first real laugh from her. It was small, but it was real.

They sat like that a while longer. Not saying much. Letting the space between them fill with unspoken things.

Eventually, she checked her phone. The screen lit her face just enough for him to notice the tiniest scar near her jawline. He hadn’t seen it the night before.

She stood.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Lucien nodded.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

She gave him a look—half curious, half warning—and left without another word.

Lucien stayed.

For once, he didn’t feel like he was waiting for something to go wrong.

That worried him more than anything else.

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...--What will this lead to?--...

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