Liana’s POV
I told myself I wouldn’t see him again, that once the vote ended, once the dust settled, I’d walk away but the universe doesn’t believe in clean exits.
The café on the corner of Rue Marceau has always been my hideout. A place where no one uses names, only nods. I come here when I need to think or when I don’t want anyone to find me. Except, somehow, he does.
He’s standing by the counter, ordering coffee like he belongs there. A dark coat, collar turned up against the drizzle, hair a little longer than I remember. He looks tired, like someone who’s been living on too much adrenaline and too little sleep.
When the barista hands him his cup, he glances around and his eyes land on me. The jolt is immediate. A pulse, a current. He freezes. Then smiles, just a little. The kind of
