The rain had followed her all the way home — tapping on the bus window like an old song she almost remembered.
Christabel pressed her forehead to the cold glass, replaying it in her head for the hundredth time:
The way he'd looked at her — like he already knew her. Like he'd always known her.
The way he'd said her name without asking.
She told herself there was an explanation.
Maybe he'd seen her name tag — but she didn't wear one. Maybe Maya had told him about her — but Maya would never.
The bus jolted to a stop. She stepped into puddles, the cold seeping through her shoes, but her mind stayed warm in that moment: storm-colored eyes, a voice soft enough to hide a thousand sharp things.
She found Maya in the kitchen, barefoot, dancing around to old music on her phone while she chopped vegetables.
Their tiny apartment smelled like garlic and onions and the cheap wine Maya always said was 'for cooking only, Bel, don't drink this poison'.
"Hey," Maya called, not looking up. "You look like a drowned kitten."
Christabel laughed, peeling off her wet coat. She wanted to hold the moment in the café close — but part of her wanted to let it slip through her fingers too. Safe. Ordinary. Gone.
"Long day?" Maya asked, sliding a bowl across the counter for her to help.
Christabel took the knife automatically, slicing carrots into neat coins. She waited. Maybe she wouldn't say it. Maybe she'd keep him to herself — a secret, soft and new.
But it pressed at her ribs until it fell out.
"I met someone today."
Maya's knife paused mid-chop. She didn't look up. "Yeah?"
Christabel smiled down at the cutting board. "A customer. He came in during the rain. Twice, actually."
Maya's voice was too light. "He cute?"
"He was… beautiful." Christabel heard herself and flushed. "Not handsome, exactly. More like… I don't know. Like something you'd see in a painting. Cold. But he wasn't rude. He was quiet. Polite. He paid too much for coffee and left without drinking it."
Maya put down the knife, her eyes flicking up now — sharp as a wolf's. "Name?"
Christabel hesitated. "Peter. But not just Peter." She gave a soft, nervous laugh. "He said Santiago Peter Marco."
She expected Maya to smile, to tease her. But Maya just stared. For a heartbeat, the kitchen felt too small.
"Maya?" Christabel asked softly. "What? Don't look at me like that."
Maya turned to the sink, rinsing her hands too hard, water splashing on her wrists. She dried them slowly, like buying herself time.
"Bel," Maya said, voice low, "where exactly did you meet him again?"
"The café, where else?" Christabel leaned against the counter, watching her friend too closely now. "Why? He was just… I don't know. Intense. But he didn't do anything wrong."
Maya laughed once — no humor in it. She looked at Christabel, really looked, and Christabel hated the pity she saw there.
"Bel. Do you know what Santiago means in this city?" Maya's voice was soft, but each word landed like a stone in Christabel's stomach.
Christabel shrugged helplessly. "Rich? Important? I don't know, Maya, I'm not—"
"Dangerous," Maya cut in. "The Santiago name doesn't just mean money, Bel. It means old money. Dirty money. Men who make people disappear. Men who don't run from trouble because they are the trouble."
Christabel frowned, trying to swallow the knot rising in her throat. "You're scaring me. He was just… he didn't seem—"
Maya's laugh was sad, almost kind. "Of course he didn't. They never do, not at first. That's how they get you to open the door." She stepped closer, cupping Christabel's cheek in her hand, her thumb brushing the skin under her eye like she was trying to wipe away a bruise that hadn't formed yet.
"Promise me something, Bel. If he comes back — and he will come back — you keep it polite, you take his money, and you send him on his way. You don't smile at him like that again. You don't give him anything. Not your name, not your story. Nothing."
Christabel's lips parted to promise, to nod, to agree — but in her mind, she saw him again: rain sliding down his jaw, the way his eyes softened just for a moment, like she'd reminded him of something beautiful in a world that forgot how to be soft.
She wondered what it would feel like to touch that coldness and not pull her hand back.
And she lied to her best friend.
"Okay," Christabel whispered. "I promise."
Maya studied her for a long second, then pulled her into a tight hug. Christabel let her — pressing her face into Maya's shoulder, breathing in the scent of cheap wine and garlic. Safe. Familiar.
But behind her closed eyelids, storm-colored eyes watched her still.
And outside, the rain began to fall harder against their window — a soft knocking she pretended not to hear.