The first thing he noticed was the way the light hit her eyes.
A slant of sun through the glass panels behind her—too golden for morning, too cruel for noon—painted her lashes in soft amber. And her eyes... God. Her eyes.
Laurent felt something twist in his chest. Not ache. Not quite. More like a thread pulled tight, the warning snap before fabric tears.
He hadn't moved. Couldn't.
Maria kept walking. Her scarf fluttered behind her, tugged by wind like it didn't want to let her go. And maybe neither did he.
Not again.
His hand clenched around the car door. For a moment, all sound peeled away. The market noise dropped to a hum, the sunlight turned colder, and time rolled backward in his mind like smoke returning to a match.
---
*Then.*
Somewhere in Valencia. Or maybe Seville. Memory distorts truth when beauty's involved.
He'd been younger. Less cruel. Less him. Sitting on the edge of a marble fountain, watching men in pressed linen suits talk about money like it was poetry.
And then—
She ran into the square.
A blur of pale yellow cotton. Hair tied back with ribbon. No shoes. Just laughter. Bare feet slapping against stone.
She didn't look around. She ran straight to him.
"Señor Laurent!" she had giggled, out of breath, flinging her arms around his neck with scandalous ease. She had smelled like peaches and wind.
His drink had nearly tipped.
He remembered her eyes.
That same impossible shade. Clear and dark and soft all at once, like velvet lit from behind. She stared into him, not up at him. She never had the decency to be intimidated.
"You're late," she whispered, nose nearly touching his.
"I wasn't expected," he'd replied.
"Exactly," she'd said, grinning like the sun only rose to catch her smile.
And now—
---
*Now.*
He blinked.
Maria was halfway across the street. Almost gone. Almost lost again.
His voice came before his mind did.
*"Wait."*
She didn't.
So he moved. Fast.
Laurent stepped into the street without looking. A horn blared. A car swerved. Somewhere behind him, Tamra flinched. But he didn't stop until he was in front of her.
Maria looked up—startled, breathless, guarded. Her eyes widened. But she didn't step back.
Good. He couldn't take it if she stepped back.
For one long second, he didn't speak. Just looked. And looked again.
Up close, she was different. Her face was sharper. More tired. No ribbon. No peaches.
But the eyes?
The same.
Exactly the same.
*"What's your name?"* he asked, low. Too low for the crowd to hear. His voice didn't beg—but it wasn't the voice of a man in control, either.
Maria hesitated.
Her lips parted. Closed. Her shoulders curled forward. She touched her scarf again.
And then she said it.
*"Maria."*