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He didn't even get to his desk when Perry called him into his office. He might be late for the fifth time this week, but he had to step in and stop a runaway city bus from ploughing into traffic.
It was unavoidable.
He rushed over, almost tripping over his feet, before he entered.
“Kent,” Perry started, fixing that sharp gaze on him he has become all too accustomed to.
“I know, I’m late, I—”
Perry turns his monitor toward Clark. “What do you know about her?”
His ready-made excuse went out the window as he looked at the screen and saw you.
He had seen you popping up on social media and in local papers for months now, always paired with the tagline, Love is my business.
“Not a whole lot,” Clark admitted slowly, “but I hear she’s the city’s most sought-after matchmaker. Her clients swear she’s never wrong.”
“Yes,” Perry said, leaning forward, “and I want you to run a story on her. Find out what makes her tick, how she does it. You know, get the human angle.”
“Are you sure I’m the person for the job?” Clark asked, brow furrowing slightly.
“Half the office is buried in the Metropolis mayoral scandal,” Perry cut in. “You’re it, Kent.”
And Clark knew there was no arguing with that.
***
Amoré Co. was a pretty building. Right in the centre of Metropolis and even across from one of Clark’s favourite parks.
The building itself was an elegant old stone structure, its columns draped in twisting vines that bloomed into soft pastel flowers. Warm afternoon light glimmered off the polished windows, like something out of a dream. Rent must cost an arm and a leg.
Clark paused at the base of the steps, taking it in for a moment before pushing open the heavy glass door.
The moment he crossed the threshold, it felt as if he had stepped into another world.
The city’s noise fell away in an instant. The air was warm, carrying the soft scent of fresh flowers, jasmine, he recognised on second thought.
The place was perfectly curated, down to its very last detail. No wonder it's so popular.
Clark stepped up to the front desk, opening his mouth to introduce himself, only to be cut off by a burst of noise coming from down the hall.
Before he could even process what was happening, the source of the commotion came into view.
You.
You were storming toward the lobby at high speed, face full of frustration as your assistant trailed behind you, looking frazzled.
And he couldn't help but notice that you're wearing a pair of oversized white wings. The poor thing struggled to keep up, clutching a gold-painted bow in one hand and an arrow tipped with a foam heart in the other.
“It’s just one picture for Instagram!” your assistant pleaded breathlessly, like she had been chasing you for an hour, which he did not doubt was the case.
“The bow and arrow are overkill!” you shot back without slowing down, your voice sharp with indignation.
“It’s thematic!”
“Erin. It’s humiliating! I am running a serious business here, not a circus!” you snapped, practically speed-walking now in a desperate bid to escape both the conversation and any further loss of dignity.
Your focus was entirely on making a clean getaway, which was why you didn’t notice the tall man stepping out from the front desk area until you collided with him, full force.
“Oh—!” The breath whooshed out of you as you stumbled backwards, only to find a pair of strong hands catching you by the elbows before you could fall.
You blinked repeatedly, wondering if you had fallen into a new reality as you teetered on your heels. Your life was well and truly in this man's (firm but gentle) grip.
“Are you alright?” he asked with genuine concern.
For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
Your hands had landed against his chest without meaning to, and for some inexplicable reason, you didn’t immediately pull them away. You looked up—and up—and up, finally meeting his gaze.
“Yeah, I’m just…” You trailed off, words evaporating as your mind went completely blank. Everything that had just happened vanished like smoke.
Your feet returned fully to the ground, and you suddenly became hyperaware of how warm and safe his hands felt. “Who are you?”
“Oh. Right.” He adjusted his glasses, “Clark Kent. I believe I have an interview scheduled.”
“Clark Kent,” you repeated slowly, tasting the name on your tongue. Then it clicked. “Oh! The journalist. Right, right—I thought you looked familiar.”
You took a half-step back, smoothing your expression into something professional as best as you could. Can't be caught slipping.
“Follow me,” you said briskly, turning sharply on your heel.
Clark fell into step behind you with that quiet, easy stride of his. Despite his size, he didn’t make a sound. No heavy footfalls, no shuffle of clothing, which, frankly, only unsettled you more.
As you moved through the sleek, carefully curated hallways of Amoré Co., you caught movement out of the corner of your eye.
Erin, your endlessly meddling assistant, had taken out her phone and was sneaking a few candid shots of you and Clark walking together.
You didn’t stop waking, but your voice cut through the air like a whip. “Erin.”
The phone vanished so fast it was almost as if it was never there.
“Yes, boss?” she said innocently, flashing a smile that was all teeth.
“If you post any pictures before I approve them, you’ll be updating your résumé before the end of the day.”
Erin’s grin didn’t falter, not one smidge. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You shot her a look that very clearly said I am not joking, then quickened your pace, Clark easily keeping up beside you.
For a brief moment, you caught Erin’s amused smirk out of the corner of your eye, and you realised with a sinking feeling that she was already mentally writing captions like: Our fearless leader and who? 👀
You shut the office door firmly behind you, cutting off any chance of Erin barging in with a camera, a prop, or some wild idea for “brand engagement.”
The last thing you needed was your assistant turning this interview into a publicity stunt. An interview you're not quite sure you want to be doing anyway.
Your office was a carefully curated space, just like the rest of the building.
Every detail, from the soft amber lighting to the single plush chair positioned just a little too low, was designed with intent. Comfort bred complacency, and you were anything but.
You slid gracefully into your seat behind the desk, folding one leg over the other. Clark, meanwhile, lowered himself into the guest chair opposite you.
It made him look slightly awkward and very much too large for the space.
Perfect.
You rested your chin on your hand, watching him in silence for a moment.
Already, your instincts were running wild, logging every detail and filing it away for later. His posture was slightly hunched and unguarded, but not careless. His eyes are warm, kind… and yet there was something you couldn't quite put your finger on.
“I’ve read a few of your articles,” you said finally, leaning back in your chair.
Clark’s face lit with genuine interest, his brows lifting slightly. “And what did you think?” he asked, like the answer truly mattered to him.
You tilted your head, considering him. “You’re… quite talented,” you admitted, the words reluctant but honest. He wrote about things that mattered and did it with integrity, you could respect that.
A small, pleased smile curved his lips. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
You narrow your eyes slightly, not liking how easily he disarmed you. “Don’t get too comfortable, Kent. I just like to read up on who I’m dealing with.”
“So you’ve done your homework on me.”
“Of course,” you said smoothly, though a flicker of frustration sparked in your chest. Homework implied you’d learned something useful, but Clark Kent had given you nothing but perfectly ordinary facts. Kansas upbringing. Journalism degree. A job at the Daily Planet.
“But enough about you,” you said, lifting a hand dismissively. “Unfortunately, you’re here to learn about me.”
Clark’s lips curved into an amused smile. “I wouldn’t say it’s all that unfortunate. You’re building a real empire here, after all. People want to know who the woman behind it is.”
“Oh, you mean the enigmatic businesswoman who’s somehow convinced an entire country she can find them the love of their life?”
“Something like that.” His teasing tone made you feel tingly. You're not quite sure how to combat that.
You leaned back slightly, folding your arms. “I don’t know if it’s much of a mystery. I see through all the confusing shit and guide them to love. Even though, in my personal experience, it’s…” You trailed off, catching yourself before you said too much. Though it might already be too late.
Clark tilted his head, studying you with that disarming sincerity of his. “So you believe in love for everyone else, but not for yourself.”
“Yes,” you said simply.
Clark’s brows knit together, but he didn’t interrupt as you continued. “I’m convinced it’s not for me. If it were, I definitely would have found them by now.”
You paused, thinking out loud quizically, “Unless they’re not from this planet.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see him crack a smile. “Don’t include that in your article. It’s off the record, okay?”
“I won’t, I won’t. I just find it interesting.”
“That I think the love of my life is probably from outer space?”
“No, well, on second thought, yes, that wasn’t what I was focusing on. I just find it interesting that you’re quiite cynical for a matchmaker,” he said at last.
“Not cynical, just realistic. I have to be practical, Kent. Can’t let myself get swept up in the… whimsy of all this “love business”.”
“That’s a shame,” he said softly. “I quite like whimsy.”
You studied him for a long moment; his response was what you expected from what you had gathered already. He sat there in his slightly rumpled suit, shoulders a little curled in like he was trying to take up less space and not just because of the ridiculous chair you put him in. In his massive hands, the small leather notebook he carried looked absolutely tiny.
And yet there was something about the picture he painted in your mind. It was charming, though you didn’t want to admit that.
“Of course you like whimsy.”
You kept looking at him. Longer than you should have, longer than was strictly professional.
At first, you told yourself it was just curiosity, or maybe a simple case of trying to size up a new client, or in this case, a journalist. But deep down, you knew better.
Then it hit you like a ton of bricks.
You couldn’t read him.
Your breath caught, a cold ripple of unease sliding down your spine. It was like sweeping your arm around in the dark for a familiar light switch and finding nothing.
Since you were a kid, you’d lived with this strange, extraordinary gift. The ability to see emotions, if you're putting it simply.
Everyone's emotional auras, threads of connection between people, were on display for your eyes only. You could see who was compatible, and who might one day fall in love.
It was why you’d built Amoré in the first place. Why you could sit across from two strangers and know if they had a future together. The barista at your favourite café, a soft green glow of calm. The skateboarder you’d watched faceplant in front of your building last week, radiating a bright yellow of embarrassment.
Everyone had a pattern. Everyone except… him.
Clark Kent sat across from you like a blank canvas.
“Huh,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.
Clark tilted his head, adjusting his glasses slightly. “Is something wrong?”
You froze, forcing a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “No, it’s just… there’s something different about you. Something I can’t… read.”
Your voice wavered, just enough to betray how unsettled you felt. You blinked, thrown completely off your game. You never got knocked off balance like this. And yet here you were, fumbling for an excuse you didn’t have.
“I, uh…” you scratched the back of your neck, looking almost sheepish, a very uncommon look for you. “I’m so sorry to do this, but… could we reschedule? Something’s come up.”
“Oh. Uh—yes, of course,” he said quickly, though he seemed a little worried for you.
“You'll be shadowing me for a while anyway. We’ve got all the time in the world.”
“All the time in the world,” he echoes softly, the words sticking in your throat.
“Great.”
As he stands to leave, you sit there in silence, staring at the space he’d occupied.
For the first time since you discovered your gift, you wondered if you’d finally met someone who wasn’t part of your map at all.
***
You can't sleep, and it's all Clark Kent's fault.
Just when you thought you’d finally fall asleep, there he was again, frolicking through your mind. Literally. You had imagined him in a field with a white, billowy shirt and everything.
It had you pacing back and forth in your office like a caged animal. You arrived at work at the crack of dawn and proceeded to drive yourself mad.
In all your time matchmaking and breathing the intricate, impossible web of human emotions, you had never been stumped like this.
This was your job, for goodness sake!
You took the chaos of emotions and made it make sense.
But him? Clark Kent was an anomaly. And you hated anomalies.
So you did what you always did: research. The same ritual you’d performed countless times before for countless clients. Background checks, old photographs, school records, the usual.
“Clark Kent,” you repeat to yourself for possibly the thousandth time, eyes burning from the glow of your laptop screen. “Born and raised in Kansas. Studied journalism at Metropolis University. Works at the Daily Planet…”
You knew all this before you met him, but now it felt like a taunt that you couldn’t find out anything out of the ordinary. Days had passed since you last saw him, and you had gained no new insights into him. Maybe you needed to hire a private investigator.
A knock at your office door startled you. You blinked and looked up to find Clark himself standing there, a picture of peace, while you were buried under a mess of papers and half-drunk coffee cups.
You looked at the clock, blinking slowly.
12:00 PM.
How did that happen?
“Are you okay? You look like—” he began.
“That’s right, I haven’t slept,” you cut in, your voice sharp.
You pushed back from the desk, standing up to give him a piece of your mind. How dare he plague your mind like this?
“I have spent hours, no, days, trying to understand the… phenomenon that is you. And do you want to know what I came up with?”
“Yes?” He replied, sounding only a little scared.
“Absolutely nothing,” you groan, the lack of sleep evident in your voice. “I have never failed to read someone, not once. People are equations to me. Messy, emotional equations, but solvable nonetheless. But you?”
Your hands shook as you pointed at him, almost accusingly. “With you, there’s nothing. That's literally impossible, Kent!”
You were sure you looked like a mad woman, stark raving mad. Though if you did, Clark didn’t let on.
“Who are you, Clark Kent?”
The question was more for yourself than for him if you were being honest. You didn’t even know what you would want to hear from him.
That he was synthetically created in a lab, and that’s why he’s off your radar? That he was actually a figment of your imagination created by sleep deprivation? That you were actually still dreaming right now?
Clark cleared his throat before you could continue digging the hole you were already in.
I think you should take a break. Get some food to clear your head? I think it’ll do you a whole world of good. My treat.”
He wants to buy you food? The idea startled a laugh out of you. The man who had driven you to madness wanted to buy you food? Though what better way to figure him out than to study him up close.
…Plus a little food wouldn’t hurt.
“I’d… I’d like food,” you mumbled, like you were admitting defeat.
He didn’t press or ask any questions. Instead, he grabbed one of your jackets off the hook and put it over your shoulders.
“Let’s go.”
***
It was nothing short of a miracle that you’d managed to drag yourself away from your desk.
And all because Clark Kent had convinced you to get lunch.
You hate to admit it, but you needed this. The simple pleasure of stepping outside, breathing fresh air, and eating something that wasn’t coffee and sheer willpower.
The first bite of the sandwich was heavenly. The kind of perfect combination of flavours that made you wonder why you’d ever let yourself live on takeout salads and protein bars. You closed your eyes briefly, savouring it.
God, this hit the spot.
“See?” Clark jests, with a light nudge. “Told you it’s the best sandwich in town.”
“Perhaps,” you allowed, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full victory.
Clark just grinned at you, that quiet, boyish smile that was far too distracting for your own good. Deciding that staring at him would only make things worse, you swept your gaze around the cosy little restaurant instead.
That was when your senses prickled, your Cupid senses, as Erin dubbed them.
The threads in the room shifted, glowing faintly at the edge of your vision. Conversations blurred, footsteps faded, and suddenly you were aware of a moment about to unfold.
“You see that girl over there?” you murmured, tilting your head toward a young woman perched nervously in a café, fiddling with her drink.
Clark followed your gaze, his brow furrowed. “Yeah.”
“Right now, I’ve seen… oh, let’s say a dozen different versions of the same event play out in my mind. Everything hinges on whether she bumps into the guy three seats over.” You sipped your drink like it was nothing extraordinary, though the weight of what you’d just said hung between you.
“And?” Clark prompted carefully.
You smiled faintly. “From what I can see, they'll have enough similarities to keep them connected, but enough differences to keep things interesting.”
“So you think they’ll… fall in love?” he questions.
“They will,” you said with certainty. “If they talk today, there’s an 86.75% chance they’ll stay together. At least for a couple years.”
“86.75?” Clark questions the specificity.
“Let's round it up to 87%.”
He stared at you like you were psychic. “How do you…?”
“It’s a secret. If I told you all my secrets, then I’d be out of a job. And without a little mystery…” You let him fill in the blanks.
Clark leaned forward, hunched like he was sharing a secret or trying not to get caught sneaking a cookie out of the jar. A small smile finds its way onto your face. It's frustratingly endearing. “So, are you going to… intervene?”
“Oh, no. I don’t think I’m meant to intervene. Besides…” You swirled the ice in your glass, the sound sharp in the quiet moment between you. “I’d be out of business if I kept matching people for free.”
As if on cue, the girl stumbled slightly, bumping into the man three seats down. Their eyes met, and just like that, a new thread came to life, visible only to you.
“See? I'm good, right?”
***
“Where are we going now?” Clark asked, falling into step beside you as the two of you boarded the bus.
“Nowhere in particular,” you said lightly, slipping into a window seat. “Clearing my head like you told me to.”
The truth was, you just needed to move. To keep from sitting still long enough to think about him too hard.
Clark sat down next to you, shoulders brushing. The bus rumbled to life, lurching forward as the cityscape rolled past in blurred streaks of light and colour. Evening crowds packed the aisle, voices overlapping in a warm, chaotic hum.
It was… alive in here. Threads were all over the place, silver lines only you could see, stretching between people like spider silk. Some threads were strong, others frayed and just about ready to snap.
Halfway through the ride, an older couple boarded. The man’s hand trembled slightly as he clutched the railing. You and Clark immediately stood to offer your seats.
“Please,” Clark said with a warm smile. “Sit here.”
The couple thanked you, and as they sat, you felt their bond brush against your senses.
Huh.
“It’s beyond logic,” you murmured, half to yourself.
Clark turned, brow furrowed. “What is?”
You gestured subtly toward the couple. “They don’t make sense on paper. From the looks of it, completely different lifestyles and opposing temperaments. By every measurable standard, they shouldn’t work. And yet…” You paused, watching as the man reached for the woman’s hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles like it was a habit. “They fit. Perfectly.”
Clark’s gaze softened at the gesture and your eyes. “That’s beautiful. You make it sound like an art.”
“It is an art,” you admitted. “Though, most days, it feels more like math.”
You noticed his eyes on you, smiling even though you felt he had no reason to be.
“What is it? You want to use it as a quote for the story?”
You let out a big languid sigh, “We shouldn't be focused on me, just the business.”
“Well,” Clark said gently, leaning slightly forward, “the story isn’t just about your business. You are the story.”
You blinked at him, taken aback by the unexpected honesty in his words. For a moment, you felt uncharacteristically exposed.
“There’s not much to tell about me,” you said quietly, almost to yourself. “I mean… I’ve never been in love.” The confession slipped out before you could stop it. “And no one has ever loved me.”
“But… how do you know that?”
“Because if someone loved me, I’d know. Trust me. It’s my job to know.”
He wanted to ask more, to get down to the bottom of this. It was a journalistic instinct, you supposed.
You shifted gears before he could press further. “What about you? Clark Kent, journalist extraordinaire…” You gave him a sly look. “Superman’s confidant…”
Clark almost choked, adjusting his glasses yet again, a nervous habit you'd noticed. “Confidant? I think not,” he said with a sheepish chuckle, a little too quick to deny it.
You leaned closer, studying his face. “Are you unlucky in love, too?”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Want a free consultation?” you teased, your voice playful, though your chest felt strangely tight. Something told you that you wouldn't like setting him up with someone, and not just because you couldn't read him.
He smiled politely and shook his head. “No, I’m… if I find love, I think it’ll happen naturally.”
“Like a meet-cute in a bookstore? Or a fateful meeting after a missed train?” The idea amused you, though it did fit your image of him. Something so… classic, or cliché. “You a hopeless romantic, Kent?”
“Something like that,” he admitted, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
You hesitated, then asked more quietly, “Have you ever been in love before?” Your tone was different now, softer, as if afraid of the answer.
“Something like that,” he said again, but this time there was a weight to it. His gaze shifted, distant, like he was seeing something far away, or someone.
You studied him closely, but there was nothing. No thread. No spark. Just the infuriating emptiness that surrounded him. And yet… the way he looked in that moment made you feel something.
“How did it feel?” you asked before you could stop yourself.
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost reverent. “Like coming up for air after being underwater for a very, very long time.” The words sank in like a wave, washing over you, leaving you breathless. You wished that you could feel what he had felt.
“You’re pretty good with your words,” you mutter, looking down at your feet.
“Well, I am a journalist.”
They’re fast approaching the East side of the city when Clark asks, “Can I take you somewhere?”
***
“How did you even find this place?” you asked. To you, this was a treasure trove, and you were only slightly (very) jealous that you hadn’t found it before him.
“I was wandering, taking some time to clear my head after a tough day, when I stumbled across this cafe.”
He remembers the day well. He had just saved a collapsing bridge as Superman. He had been stretching himself thin at that time, not taking care of himself the way he knew he should. His parents were fussing over him even on the phone, but he pushed the tiredness aside until he couldn’t anymore.
He didn’t know what you were going through, not really, but he recognised your exhaustion, the stress. And if he could give you even a fraction of the peace he’d found that day, sitting in a corner with a warm cup and no one asking anything of him, then maybe that would be enough.
“The owners have been here for over ten years. They say a little bit of love goes into every bite,” he continued.
“How romantic.”
The familiar jingle of the door announced your entry into the shop, and the scent hit you immediately. This is heaven. You could practically taste every cookie in the display case just by looking at them.
Clark chuckled softly at you, and it was a sound that made your chest flutter. All sorts of fluffy and just as sweet as the pastries you were gaping at.
“Clark!” a cheerful voice called from the back, cutting through the warm cafe hum. You looked up to see a friendly woman emerging, wiping flour from her hands. Clearly, she knew him well.
“You’ve finally brought your girlfriend by,” she remarked, oh-so incorrectly.
“Oh, no, she’s not—” Clark started, his hands starting to fly about as he tried his best to explain.
“She’s a real beauty. You are a lucky guy,” she added.
You blinked at them both, scrambling for words. Clark’s girlfriend? Your mind raced faster than your mouth could form a sentence.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clark said patiently, giving you a reassuring look, “she… uh… she’s a friend.”
The woman behind the counter didn’t look convinced. A cheeky smile played on her lips as she leaned on the counter slightly.
“Did Clark tell you I’m something of a matchmaker?” she asked.
“Oh really?” you replied, eyebrows raised. Maybe you had some competition.
“Yes,” she continues, tilting her head. “I can tell. I see a spark between the two of you. If you're not dating yet, you will be soon.”
You couldn’t help but chuckle at her assertions, but then you looked at Clark to find him looking more tomato than man. You notice the flush creeping up his neck, spreading all the way to the tips of his ears. He wore it well.
“I see couples come through these doors all the time,” she says, all self-assured. “I know chemistry when I see it.”
“How about we just… pick something and buy it?” Clark suggested, struggling to steer the conversation away from the matchmaking remarks. He cast a quick glance at the woman behind the counter, hoping for mercy.
The woman relented, letting him breathe for a moment. Clearly, not wanting Clark to die of embarrassment right there in the cafe.
“What would you like?” he asked, his tone careful, polite, and slightly amused.
Your eyes immediately landed on a giant cookie, the kind that practically radiated warmth and sweetness. Your Cupid senses were telling you there was a thread linking you to that oversized cookie. It’s fate.
“The big cookie,” you said without hesitation. You had your eyes on that beauty, and it was going to be in your stomach no matter what.
Clark melted at that little determined look on your face, not that you saw. He stepped forward and paid for it, regaining his composure.
You both found a small table in the corner of the cafe by the window. Clark slid the cookie onto the table between you, the aroma of chocolate and warm dough filling the air.
“It looks… delicious,” you murmured, practically cooing.
You dug in and munched like it was your only source of joy. This was exactly what you needed. You wonder how he knew. Maybe he could read you in ways you can't read him.
You looked up, crumbs still clinging to the corner of your mouth, only to find Clark already watching you.
“What?” you asked, words slightly muffled by the cookie.
“There’s…” he started, but resorted to gesturing toward your face. You tried to wipe at the crumbs yourself, but you couldn’t quite get all of them.
“May I?” he asked softly.
You nodded, thinking nothing of it. But the moment he touched you, you were done for.
Your vision of him turned pink, a soft, rosy hue washing over him like sunlight through stained glass. Everything else blurred, images meshing into one except him. He was crystal clear.
Your heart thumped in a way that made your chest ache, and for a moment, all the logic you’ve been nattering on about went POOF.
You had no words for this feeling.
A simple brush of his thumb had you in tatters.
He just smiled, as if he could feel it too, this feeling that you couldn’t name. Or rather, refused to.
For the first time in your life, you didn’t analyse it.
You simply felt it.
***
Clark Kent was keeping you up at night, but in a very different way now.
Before, he had been an enigma, a void. You couldn’t see an emotional aura when you looked at him. That blank canvas frustrated you, made your gift feel useless.
But now…
Now, it was as if you had been hit with a wave of roses and sunshine the moment his thumb brushed your face a few days ago. You almost wished you could go back to the blank canvas, instead of the beautiful, rose-hellscape you were living in when you so much as thought of the man.
The memory lingered in your brain, the slightest whiff of a cookie sending you into a love coma.
You tried to focus, follow your instincts and rationalise the hell out of what was happening to you. But your heart had other ideas. It was being uncooperative and stubborn. Racing at the thought of him, even though you explicitly told it not to.
To be betrayed by your own heart, how poetic.
It was… unfamiliar. Undoubtedly terrifying, but in the stillness of the night, when you let your guard down for but a moment, you can admit that it felt…good.
You tried to temper your excitement, to remind yourself that he was just a journalist writing a story about you. In a week, he’d be out of your life, a fleeting curiosity, and you’d return to your orderly world of probabilities.
And yet… something about him refused to be ignored.
It was like being swept off your feet.