The rain had turned the city into a reflection. We were the last two people in the lounge, though neither of us had said we were ready to leave. He had introduced himself once, then asked my name again as if the first answer had left him wanting the sound of it.
There was nothing hurried about him. His jacket was folded over the chair. His watch sat beside the glass. When the server asked if we wanted another round, he looked at me instead of answering for us both. I liked that. A little attention can feel more intimate than a grand gesture.
We talked about travel first, then music, then the kind of trouble that sounds better in a low voice. Every pause held a question. Every answer gave us somewhere new to go. The night began to narrow around the table: candlelight, his smile, the careful distance between our hands.
When he offered to walk me to the car, I let the silence answer before I did. Outside, the rain had softened. He asked whether I wanted the evening to end here. I could have said yes. I could have said goodnight. Instead, I stepped closer and made him ask me again.
Some invitations are better for the way they linger than for where they lead. I left with the city still shining on my coat and the sound of my name in his voice. The rest belongs to another story.