Come on. Calm down. You've been on dates before. Wait, this isn't a date. I nervously drummed my fingers on the side of my leg, looking around the bar and then studiously staring at the drinks menu without reading a single word. Or is it a date? No. Nooo. Not a date. Just here for information. I stole a quick look around again. The bar wasn't very full. It was a pretty standard Sunday night crowd. One table over was a small group of girls having cocktails, clearly postponing the end of the weekend as much as they could; next to them, a couple playing a board game I used to play with my family. But where was Noah? It was already ten minutes past the time we would meet up and – Oh, come on, ten minutes. That doesn't matter because it's not, not a date. You wouldn't want to go on a date with a guy who gets in bar fights.
"Hi, Emma Sawyer." Noah was suddenly right in front of me, looking down at me from his ridiculous height with a cocky but kind smile on his face. His hair looked damp. "Sorry I'm a little late – that rainstorm started right when I left home and it's like heaven burst. I had to run for shelter." He shrugged off his brown leather jacket and sat down across the table. The wooden furniture looked comically small with him on it.
"That's okay," I nodded. "I haven't ordered yet. Figured I'd wait for you."
He smiled at me again, a smile that despite his rough edges was so appealing I actually felt physically uncomfortable. How did this guy manage to be intimidating, graceful and accessible at the same time? I felt like I was sitting across from a bigger, deeper-voiced modern-day version of Marlon Brando. "Thanks," he said, "I'll get it. What do you want to drink?"
"Uh, chardonnay, please?" I was suddenly hyper-aware of myself and everything I said. He seemed to notice – his glance lingered on me for a long second before he nodded and got up to walk to the bar.
When Noah returned with my wine and a beer I quickly set down the coaster I'd been flipping between my hands. I clinked my glass against his, looking him in the eye for good luck, and took a big sip.
He watched me, amused. "You okay, Emma? You seem a little tense."
With that, my body suddenly released itself. Maybe it was because he seemed contagiously relaxed; maybe it was that smile and that sparkle in his eyes. I didn't know, but I didn't particularly care – I was just glad not to feel so nervous and intimidated. I laughed with him. "I'm good. Thanks. More importantly… how are you? There's not a scratch on you."
"Yeah… it wasn't that bad. Whatever scratches I had are all healed now."
I frowned. "You're saying you barely got hurt? Even though you got jumped by six guys and two of them are in the hospital? I talked to the club, you know."
He shrugged. "I'm saying that club's making a much bigger deal out of this than they need to. Those two men were at the ER for three hours at most."
"They told me you broke someone's nose. That sounds like a pretty big deal."
Noah looked at me, gauging my reaction briefly before grinning. "You've never seen a bar fight before, have you?"
"But you've clearly been in one before." I raised an eyebrow. "More than once, judging from the way you're talking about it."
He swirled his beer around the glass for a second, reviving the foam, and took a sip. "I'm a soldier. Did I tell you about that?"
He hadn't, of course, but then I'd already read that online. But there was no way I would let him notice I'd done some research. "Oh, really? That's so interesting."
His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but the grin hadn't left his face. "You knew that, didn't you?"
"What?" I hid my face behind my wine glass, but didn't break eye contact over the rim of the glass. I couldn't help but smile. He'd caught me red-handed – was I that obvious a liar?
"Oh, you know what I'm talking about, Emma. I don't often hear a voice dripping with that much surprise."
I slowly set my glass back on the table, gathering my thoughts before looking up and responding. "Still, though, that doesn't explain why you'd regularly enter into bar fights."
He shrugged. "It kind of comes with the territory. I don't really mean bar fights, specifically. These things sometimes happen when you're in a large group of men for days and nights on end. Add some alcohol to the mix…"
"Right, that does make sense," I nodded. "I just wonder… how the hell did you fight them off? I mean –" I lifted my hand, vaguely indicating his size with a gesture. "I get how you'd win against one or two, three maybe, especially with military training, but six?"
Noah sat back in his chair and crossed his right ankle over his left knee. I didn't think I had ever met someone with his degree of confidence – although in a completely different way from his arrogance at the club. There, before he'd come over to talk to me, he had looked like an island in a sea of people who were fawning all over him, but whom he'd shown absolutely zero interest in. He'd been an impenetrable rock. Now, he was more like a steady flame.
"It's not just military training. Nothing I can talk about, though." An apologetic smile. "Let's just say I've been doing this for a while."
Well, that story could go one of two ways: either he was an international superspy, or he was an assassin. I watched him for what felt like longer than the three or four seconds it really was, but decided not to press on that further. It was clearly secret. "Did you go see them at the hospital?"
"Sure," he replied. "Talked to the doctors, the cops that were there, everyone except the men themselves – I guess the police didn't want the situation to escalate." He finished his beer and looked at my almost-empty glass. I'd been drinking quickly, apparently – maybe I was subconsciously more nervous than I felt. "Do you want another?"
"Sure, thanks." While he was at the bar, I fished my phone out of my purse. Between the messages from friends, app notifications and e-mails was a number of texts from Gabrielle.
HOW IS HE? TELL ME EVERYTHING!
Is he still hot? Is he a bloody mess? Does he feel bad about it?! So many questions!
Are you gonna make out?
EMMA I WANT ANSWERS
I chuckled, looked up to see if Noah was coming back anytime soon – he wasn't, he was waiting for the bartender to fill our glasses – and started typing a quick response.
Still hottest guy I've ever seen in real life. Also still super mysterious. Nothing's gonna happen though, he's not even flirting. Text you later!
I'd just put my phone back and started picking at my nails when Noah came back and set the glass of wine in front of me.
"So, Emma, we've talked about me," he started – although truthfully, we really hadn't talked that much about him, just about the fight – "but all I know about you is your name, that you like my brother's band, and that you're ravishing."
I looked down, smiling, at my hands and could feel my cheeks warming. Ravishing. Who even used that word in the twenty-first century? "Thanks."
"You're welcome; I'm only speaking the truth. So what do you do?" Noah's intense, attentive gaze stayed on me as he sipped his beer.
"I'm an assistant at the city government. I do analysis and write reports and stuff." I felt so boring saying that, especially considering his job – which was either already cool, if he was only an army captain, or unbelievably awesome if it was something more than that.
His lips curled into a clever grin. "I didn't mean what you do for money. I'm trying to figure out what you're passionate about. And it's clearly not your job."
"Oh, heh." I laughed bashfully. "I uh… I'd really like to be a photographer some day."
"Ah, see! Knew it!" He leaned forward, delighted. "I've seen enough creative spark to recognize it in others. Have you been doing that for a long time?"

Noah fired question after question at me and not for a single second did he seem to lose interest in my answers. He asked me about my passions, the countries I'd traveled to, college, my friends, my family… and although I hardly gave him everything, something about him made me speak more freely than I would with most people I barely knew. It started with me telling him the facts of how I'd ended up at my dead-end job, but before long I opened up to him about my father's death, seven years ago, and my brother's move abroad not long after.
He told me about himself, too; he told me he was 29, that he'd basically grown up in Italy and that he'd known his entire life he wanted to join the military, out of a sense of pride and a yearning to defend those he cared about. He told me he had a huge family and that he hadn't always felt welcome or valued, but that eventually he'd found his place.

Another two drinks later I finally checked my phone for the time and was surprised to see three hours had flown by – it felt like we'd only been at the bar for half an hour. It was time for both of us to go home and to bed, albeit reluctantly. Noah paid the check – politely but firmly declining my protests – and helped me into my coat.
I wasn't sure what to do with myself when we were outside. Should we hug? Do a formal handshake? Just say bye and walk away?
To my relief Noah, ever the image of composure, took action before things could get awkward.
"Goodnight, Emma Sawyer." He leaned in to kiss me on my cheek.
"Goodnight, Noah Chevalier. I had a great time. Thanks for the drinks," I smiled. When I pulled back, he did so too but slowly, and I'd already turned and started walking away when I heard his voice again.
"Emma."
I spun around. He was still standing there, looking at me without smiling but with a mischievous look in his eyes.
"There's something I want to do before you go."
I stepped closer. "What do you want to do?"
He took my hand, pulling me closer to him until I was barely a foot away. Slowly, he brought his hand to my face, tipped my chin up and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. For a second, he looked into my eyes, seemingly searching for permission but mostly building tension until I could hardly keep myself from reaching for his face and pushing myself into him.
Then, he pressed his lips onto mine, softly at first as a shiver went down my spine but soon increasing pressure and I lost any and all interest in my surroundings – it was electric. It felt as if there were sparkles traveling between our lips, a constant current, and I barely even registered the raindrops falling again. All I wanted in that moment was to stand there with him in the rain and allow myself to be sucked in by his unearthly magnetism.
But then he stopped and pulled away, a fire dancing in his eyes, and for the briefest moment it looked like his face was literally glowing – but that was probably the reflection of the streetlight on his now-wet skin and it faded as he moved.
"That's what I wanted to do." He said it softly, earnestly.
I swallowed. I needed a little more than two seconds to process the most overwhelming kiss I'd ever had. "Uh, yeah, well. You did. I guess."
He laughed, looking completely relaxed again. Did nothing faze him? "Yeah, I did."
"So…" I looked away, fiddled with the keys in my coat pocket, looked back at him. "So it looks like this was a date after all."
He cocked his head to the side. "Are you saying it wasn't a date from the start?" He looked a little hurt and surprised.
"No, that's, no – I don't know –" I stumbled, but smiled again when I heard him chuckle.
"I'm just messing with you, Emma. Date or not, I had a good time with you and I'd like to see you again." He paused to tuck that stray lock of hair behind my ear again. "But I think I made that pretty clear."
"I'd like that," I replied softly, almost straining my neck to look up at him (and here I thought I wasn't that short…). "You know where to find me."
He nodded. "I'll call you." Then, after a much calmer and shorter but just as inviting kiss, he turned on his heel with another quick "goodnight, Emma" and walked away.