Noah was late. Very late. I tapped my foot out-of-rhythm to the slow beat of the soft ambient music playing at the bar and looked around, then studiously stared at the drinks menu without reading a single word.

Come on. Calm down. You've been on dates before. Wait, this isn't a date.

I stole a quick look around again. The bar wasn't very full; it was a standard Sunday night crowd. One table over was a group of girls having cocktails and 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.

Or is it a date? No. Nooo. Not a date. Just here to see if he's okay and that's it. If he ever even shows up at all.

I checked my phone for the time. Oops. Noah wasn't that late after all; it was only four minutes past eight. I was just early.

Oh, come on. It doesn't matter anyway. You wouldn't want to go on a date with a guy who gets into bar fights.

I felt rather than saw him come in. Although I could see the door from where I sat, I was staring at my phone scrolling through nothing in particular, and yet I didn't have to look up to know that Noah had arrived. The dynamic in the bar changed abruptly and entirely — as if everyone collectively tensed up on my behalf. I felt blood rush to my hands and rubbed my thumb against my fingers to relax myself as I now looked up from my phone, only to see turned faces, a few dropped jaws, and every pair of eyes following Noah as he walked towards me.

He strode straight past the waiter asking if he wanted a table, his eyes fixed steadfastly on mine. He carried himself with a swagger that was on one hand the most arrogant I'd ever witnessed, and yet on the other incredibly graceful and sleek in spite of his height, and he looked ridiculously cool with his windswept hair, his simple navy blue wool sweater and dark jeans, a brown leather jacket slung over his shoulder and a matching pair of gloves in his hand. God, it was as if I'd forgotten how absurdly handsome he was. My memory didn't do him enough justice.

But — wait a second. I didn't know a lot about injuries and bruises, but shouldn't he at least have some remnants of a black eye or a fresh scar or something? There was no way he hadn't been hit at all.

"Emma Sawyer. Hi," he said when he stood next to me after what felt like an eternity. His voice, much clearer now without the background noise of the club, was even deeper than I remembered.

I started to stand up, but sank back when he gestured for me not to bother. "Noah Chevalier," I responded in kind with a smile, hoping desperately it was a proper smile and not a nervous grimace.

His brow was creased slightly and his shoulders looked as tight as they had a week prior — but only for a second, because then everything changed, his sudden grin the only trigger. There was a certain release in the atmosphere; everyone averted their glances and resumed their conversations when he put his jacket and gloves down, pulled a chair back, and sat. With his left ankle crossed over his right knee, he looked supremely comfortable and self-assured, and the wooden furniture looked comically small with him on it. 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, not so much; he appeared open, attentive. And very cocky.

"How are you, Emma?" He smiled again, a smile that despite his imposing body and attitude was so appealing that I actually felt a little uncomfortable — how did this guy manage to be so intimidating and laidback at the same time? And how the hell had I gotten myself in this situation, sitting here with the most gorgeous man I could possibly imagine? How did he even exist? No person should be this attractive. It was hardly fair to everyone else.

"I'm good, how about… Hi." I looked up when the waitress stood by our table, notepad in hand.

"Hi! Can I get you anything?" Although she stayed professional and kept a straight face, I could tell she couldn't keep her eyes off Noah. I could hardly blame her.

Noah, meanwhile, didn't seem to notice — or maybe he was just that used to women salivating over him. He didn't even look at her, didn't spare her a single glance even as he said, "Macallan 12 triple cask, neat. Emma?"

"I'll have a chardonnay, please." I gave myself a mental pat on the back for not letting that sentence end in an intonated question mark — even though I could barely think straight with his brown eyes boring into mine. With some effort I tore my glance away and smiled at the waitress. "Thanks."

She only nodded, frowning slightly when Noah's eyes still wouldn't meet hers, and turned on her feet to make her way back to the bar.

"You were saying?" he said then, letting his glance rest briefly on my tight hands. I very consciously softened my fingers.

"Huh? Oh, right." I tried to take a deep breath without showing it — but I probably failed miserably, judging by the way the corners of his mouth went up the tiniest bit. "I said I'm good, and how about you? Are you okay?"

"You mean the fight?" He finally looked up at the waitress now that she was putting our drinks on the table. "Thank you, Michelle."

I frowned once the waitress — Michelle, apparently — had left after letting out a flirtatious little laugh. "You know her?"

"She had a name tag," Noah pointed out.

Oh. Right. Of course. I hadn't seen it, but then I'd been much too distracted by his intense gaze.

"Anyway, that fight. Straight to the point, Emma." He lifted his glass, but waited just a second, eyes narrowed but with a flicker of a sparkle, before taking a sip.

I defiantly jutted my chin out. "I did ask your brother that question specifically."

Noah cocked his head and assessed me for a second or two, an amused grin playing around his lips. "Very true. To answer your question, I'm fine. How is your friend doing?"

That was sweet of him, to ask about her. I took a big sip that my etiquette-minded mother would definitely have disapproved of before answering. "Gabrielle is okay. She asked me to say thanks for defending her honor."

"It was the least I could do," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. His very broad shoulders. I caught myself before my glance lingered on them a little too long.

My brow furrowed. "Knocking two guys out cold was the least?"

"Well, if you put it like that, maybe not," he said, his voice utterly nonchalant. "I don't think a polite request would've done it, though."

"Those are two extremes of a pretty wide range," I countered.

"Look, Emma, what do you want me to say?" he said sharply, and I could swear the temperature in the room rose a degree or two with his annoyance — What the hell? And why did he react so sorely? — but the strange sensation faded as quickly as it had come and he leaned back into his seat. "Do you want me to apologize? I won't. They're fine. Those men were at the ER for three hours at most."

"You went to see them at the hospital?" I had no idea what to think of that. I didn't even know if that was a normal thing to do after a fight. Probably not.

"I didn't talk to any of them, if that's what you're asking." Was that — was he uncomfortable? He was still the picture of relaxation, but a little twitch of his mouth told me that might not be entirely genuine. As if he was keeping his irritation in check.

"Why not?" I asked, a little more cautiously.

"Because I punched them in the fucking face, Emma. I doubt they wanted to see me. I only went to the hospital to see if they'd be okay, which, I might add, is more than most people would do."

I held my glass, feeling a little like I'd been scolded. "I'll have to take your word for it," I said quietly.

He moved his arms as if he wanted to cross them but thought better of it. "Sorry about that," he said, softer now. "The swearing."

I nodded — I didn't really mind the swearing, but this whole subject was out of my comfort zone — and looked at him pensively for a second or two. "How did you even do it? There were six of them, and there's not a scratch on you."

He briefly swirled his whiskey, held the glass below his nose, and sipped. "I'm a soldier. Did I tell you that?"

He hadn't, of course; I'd read it in the interview with Luca, but there was no way I was going to let him know I'd done my research. "Oh, really? That's so interesting," I said innocently.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and then that devastating lopsided grin reappeared on his face, the bit of tension fading with it. "You knew that, didn't you?"

"What? No." 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?

His eyes sparkled as he answered, "Oh, you know what I'm talking about, Emma. I don't often hear a voice dripping with that much surprise."

I chuckled and lifted a hand in defeat, then slowly set my glass back on the table. I gathered my thoughts before looking up and responding. "Still, though. I get how you could win against one or two, three maybe—" I vaguely indicated his size with a gesture — "especially with military training, but six? And getting out unscathed?"

Noah studied me for another brief moment, looking simultaneously entertained and serious; fascinated even, though I couldn't think of a single reason why a guy like him would be fascinated by a relatively average girl like me. It wasn't that I was insecure; I just knew perfectly well that he was far out of my league.

"It's not just military training. Nothing I can talk about, though," he said then, with an apologetic smile. "Let's just say I've been doing this for a while."

Well. That story could go one of two ways. Maybe Gabrielle had been right and Noah was an international superspy; that, or an assassin. Either way, not someone I should be casually spending my Sunday night with. I had no idea how to respond. So I didn't, and just sat there silently watching him.

He cleared his throat. "So, Emma, we've talked about me," he started — although really, we hadn't, not that much — "but all I know about you is your name, that you like my brother's band, and that you're ravishing."

I glanced down at my right hand, fighting a strong urge to bring it to my mouth and chew its nails. My cheeks were warming, but I looked up to meet his eyes and smiled. Ravishing. Who even used that word in the twenty-first century? "Thank you."

"Don't thank me, it's only the truth." He sipped his whisky, but his strong gaze stayed on me. "So are you from around here?"

"No, I grew up in the east," I said, grateful for the change of subject to a less intense one. "But I went to university here and stuck around."

"What do you do?"

"You mean for work? I'm an assistant at the city government. I, uh, I write reports about policy and stuff." I felt so boring saying that, especially considering his job — which was already impressive if he really was a soldier, and unbelievably cool if he was a spy. I decided not even to entertain that other scenario, the one in which he could be an assassin. That was too insane.

Noah snorted sarcastically, but his grin was cheeky and his eyes friendly. "I don't mean what you do for money. You're clearly more interesting than that." Was he flirting? That sounded like flirting. He continued before I could ruminate on it, though, and before I could reply. "What are you passionate about, Emma? Are you a traveler, for example?"

I didn't quite know how to answer that question at first — but he turned out to be an excellent listener and a better asker of questions. Soon enough, I felt comfortable enough to tell him about my love of photography — something only my closest friends knew about — and the way I'd ended up at my dead-end job, and then more and more. I hardly gave him everything, but something about him made me speak more freely than I would with most people I barely knew. Maybe it was because he seemed so contagiously relaxed, or maybe it was because his unceasing interest and that sparkle in his eyes made him a lot less intimidating.

Before long I found myself opening up about my friends, my family, my father's death seven years ago and my brother's move abroad not long after. And it felt good, so good; I hadn't realized before how liberating it would be to talk about those private things with someone new, someone who hadn't known me at my worst. I loved my friends, and I loved that I could tell them anything, but sometimes they still danced around those subjects as if they were afraid I could break as easily as I would have back then.

And in between all the questions he kept firing at me, he told me about himself, too. He was only three years older than me at 29, and he said that he'd known his entire life he'd wanted to join the military, out of a sense of pride and a yearning to defend those he cared about — though he also simply enjoyed the work. And then when I asked about his family, he started to laugh and remarked that while Luca might be unconventional, he wasn't even the most eccentric of all his relatives; but with a family as large as his, he said, there were bound to be a few oddballs.

Another three drinks later I finally checked my phone for the time and was surprised to see as many 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." He leaned in to kiss me on my cheek.

"Goodnight. I had a great time," I said. "Thanks for the drinks." When I pulled back, he did so too but slowly, and I'd already smiled and turned to walk away when I heard his voice again.

"Emma."

I spun around. He was looking at me with a serious expression but a mischievous glint 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 dipped his head and 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 like there were sparkles traveling between our lips, a constant current, and I barely even registered the raindrops falling. 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. "You know how to find me."

He nodded. "Text me when you get home." 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.