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Faint lines bracket their corners, the kind earned by years of squinting into difficult things until they gave up their answers.
A sharp jaw sits beneath a beard trimmed with deliberate precision.
Wavy chestnut hair is pushed back from his forehead in a way that should look careless, except nothing about him looks accidental.
He's older than me.
Early forties, maybe more.
Old enough that he's stopped trying to impress anyone, and it shows.
Every man I've dated has been a work in progress.
This one looks … finished.
His shoulders block out half the skyline. His black suit is cut close across them, a silver watch catching the light at his wrist.
His hands are large.
Controlled. Like they have never once shaken when the rest of a room was falling apart.
There's a faint scatter of silver in his beard, too, right along the jaw. I have a sudden, deeply inappropriate urge to find out whether it's soft.
I become aware of how close we are. His chest against mine. His hand at my back. Then I become aware of how ridiculous it is to notice any of that while I'm being rescued from a puddle.
"You okay?" he asks.
His voice is quiet and even. The kind of voice that doesn't need to be raised to be obeyed.
Before I answer, I twist to look past his arm.
A woman in silver sandals is two steps behind me, headed straight for the same puddle.
"Watch the tile," I tell her. "It's slippery right there."
She sidesteps it with a grateful little wave. Only then do I check whether my ankle still works.
"Fine," I manage. "Great. Thank you. Really. Thank you." I've now said thank you three times, which seems like the right amount for not ending up in a planter box.
The corner of his mouth moves.
Not a smile.
A rumor of one.
"My pleasure."
"I'm usually much better at walking," I tell him.
"I believe you."
His gaze drops to my mouth. Only for a second, quick enough that I could pretend I imagined it, except I definitely didn't.
It dips lower, then returns to my eyes.
The look is brief.
The effect is most certainly not.
