I never expected to see him again, especially not like this — through the windshield of my car after I’d just rear-ended his expensive vehicle at a red light. Holy biscuits, of all the people in this city…
“…Angel?”
His name escaped my lips before I could stop it. He stood there, leaning against his car with that same casual grace I remembered from twelve years ago. The tattoos that once fascinated me had multiplied, creating intricate stories across his visible skin. His eyes hadn’t changed — still that mesmerizing shade of amber that made my heart forget its rhythm.
“Well… I guess fate still drives worse than you do,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Fork,” I muttered, clutching my insurance papers. “I mean… I’m so sorry. I was looking for these and got distracted because I have this really important interview at the publishing house and—”
“You still do that,” he interrupted softly.
“Do what?”
“Replace curse words with random objects. It’s… still cute.”
I felt my cheeks warm. “And you still have that annoying ability to make me blush.”
The city continued its usual symphony around us, but we stood in our own bubble of suspended time. I noticed he was holding a book in his hand — dog-eared and well-loved, just like the ones that filled my apartment.
“‘The Shadow of the Wind’?” I asked, recognizing the cover.
His eyes lit up. “You remembered.”
“It was the first book we discussed that night at the café. You said it was criminal that I hadn’t read it yet.”
“And then you stayed up all night to finish it, just to prove me wrong.”
“Holy potatoes, that feels like yesterday.”
A car honked somewhere behind us, breaking the spell. I suddenly remembered why we were standing here in the first place.
“Oh gosh, your car! I should—”
He waved dismissively. “It’s fine. There’s barely a scratch.” Then he paused, studying me with an intensity that made my heart flutter. “But you mentioned an interview?”
“Yes, at Riverside Publishing. I’m already running late and—”
“I know the CEO,” he said quietly. “Let me drive you.”
“But my car…”
“We’ll sort it out later. Come on, Alex. Trust me?”
The way he said my name — soft, familiar, like a forgotten favorite song — made twelve years dissolve into nothing.
In his car, surrounded by the scent of leather and his subtle cologne, we fell into conversation as naturally as breathing. He told me about his company, I shared stories about my writing. The spaces between our words held all the things we weren’t saying — about the past, about why we’d let each other go, about the strange twist of fate that had brought us together again.
When we arrived at the publishing house, he turned to me. “Have dinner with me tonight? We could finish our conversation… maybe start a new chapter?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Was that a book pun, Mr. Successful Businessman?”
“Maybe. Is it working?”
“Sweet crackers… yes. Yes, it is.”
As I walked into my interview, I realized something profound: sometimes the universe has a peculiar way of editing our life stories. What seems like an ending might just be a pause between paragraphs, waiting for the right moment to continue.
And sometimes, all it takes is a minor fender bender to discover that the best stories — like the best loves — are the ones that refuse to end, no matter how many pages you turn.
That evening, over dinner, we began writing our story again. And this time, we both knew it would be a much longer book.