Cecilia - Four
The bar in Nice was exactly what I had imagined when Siena and I planned this trip.
Cozy, softly lit, with dark wooden beams running across the ceiling and a warm hum of conversation weaving through the air.
Outside, the city buzzed with life, but in here, everything felt slower, dreamier, bathed in the golden glow of hanging lanterns.
The faint scent of espresso mingled with the crisp bite of sea air drifting in from the open windows, and a jazz tune played faintly in the background, blending seamlessly with the gentle clink of glasses and the murmur of French conversation.
Siena had disappeared to the restroom, leaving me with our drinks—two chilled glasses of rosé, already collecting beads of condensation in the late evening warmth. I took a sip before flipping open my travel journal, the pages already heavy with inked memories.
?ze. The word alone felt sun-drenched. I smiled as I let the pen glide over the paper, recounting the climb we had made earlier that day to the very top of the Jardin Exotique.
Siena and I had both been panting by the time we reached the summit, our clothes sticking to our skin, hair damp from the relentless Mediterranean sun.
But the view—my God, the view. The whole coastline stretched beneath us, a vast expanse of glittering blue, the kind of blue that makes you want to dive in, never surface.
I wrote about how Siena had leaned against a stone wall, groaning dramatically about the heat while I had stood there, drinking in the sight, wanting to imprint it into my mind forever.
I was lost in the memory, pen moving fluidly, when suddenly—
A jolt.
My hand jerked, the ink streaking across the page as my table shook beneath me. A half-second of disorientation before I realized someone had knocked into it.
“Désolé,” a deep voice said hurriedly.
I inhaled sharply, already looking up, my irritation flaring. But the moment my eyes met his, the breath caught in my throat.
Theodore Finch.
I blinked, sure I had imagined him, that my mind had conjured some cruel mirage in the low-lit haze of the bar. But no—he was real. Standing right there, his palm still pressed against the edge of my table as if steadying himself, his blue eyes wide with something close to disbelief.
My heart stammered, a traitorous warmth spreading through me.
Even after six years, I knew those eyes.
The deep ocean hues, the way different shades swirled in them like currents shifting beneath the surface.
His hair was slightly longer than I remembered, still that deep brown, and he had facial hair now—a short beard that only made his features sharper, more defined.
He was broader, taller than I recalled – he had to be easily six foot or maybe it was just the shock of seeing him again that made him seem larger than life.
“Celia,” he murmured, my old nickname slipping from his lips like a memory. There was a quiet disbelief in his voice, a recognition that mirrored the one tightening in my chest.
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. I hadn’t heard him say my name in six years. Hadn’t even known if I would ever see him again. But here he was, standing inches from me in a bar in Nice, just as unexpected and devastating as ever.
And I had no idea what to say.
I coughed, clearing my throat, trying to force down the sudden lump that’s formed there.
"Theo."
His smile spreads, easy and familiar, and damn it, just as irresistible as it was all those years ago. My breath catches again before I can stop it. His eyes rake over me, swift but thorough, and though I’m still sitting, I feel the look like a caress over my skin, shivering as it goes.
I haven't moved. I can't. My fingers are still curled around my pen, frozen mid-sentence, my travel journal tilted slightly on the table where the ink has smudged from the jolt. For a moment, I think neither of us breathes. There’s too much recognition in the space between us, too much history crammed into the span of six years apart.
Finally, I manage to blurt out, "What are you doing here? "
His smile flickers, just for a second, and then it’s back, laced with something I can’t quite name—nostalgia, maybe, or just the ghost of something unfinished.
"I—" He exhales sharply, almost like a laugh, shaking his head as he scrubs a hand over his jaw. "I could ask you the same thing."
I swallow, my pulse still too quick. The bar around us hums with conversation, glasses clinking, the low thrum of music weaving between it all.
A breeze drifts in from the open doors leading to the street, carrying the scent of the sea and warm pavement.
And yet, everything else dulls, narrows, because he is standing here, in front of me, as if the universe has folded in on itself just to make this moment happen.
"I’m on holiday," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "With a friend."
Theo nods, his eyes flicking briefly toward the empty chair across from me. "Should I be worried about them coming back and thinking I’m harassing you?"
The corner of my mouth twitches, just slightly. "Siena’s in the bathroom. She’d probably just roll her eyes."
He smirks, shifting his weight. "Well, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of an eye-roll."
I shake my head, letting out a small breath of amusement. It almost feels normal. Almost. But then the silence stretches just a little too long, and I realize I’m still staring at him, still cataloguing every way he’s changed and every way he hasn’t.
"So?" I prompt, arching a brow. "Are you going to tell me what you're doing here, or are you going to keep dodging the question? "
Theo exhales another laugh, softer this time, and slides his hands into his pockets. "Alright, alright. Fair's fair. I'm here on holiday too. Just got in a couple days ago. Didn’t expect to be bumping into ghosts from my past."
The word ghosts lingers in the air between us, heavy with implication.
I grip my pen a little tighter, my fingers pressing into the worn cover of my journal. "Neither did I."
He studies me for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, with that same infuriating charm, he tilts his head toward my glass. "Can I buy you a drink, Celia?"
My breath stutters at the sound of my name on his lips, soft but sure, like he never forgot the way it felt to say it.
And God help me, I don’t think I could say no even if I wanted to.
I hesitate, my mind caught in a tug-of-war between temptation and reason.
Every part of me wants to say yes, to lean into the familiarity of Theo, to soak in every detail of the years I’ve missed.
But this trip isn’t about men, about rekindling old flames or starting something new.
It’s about me and Siena, about seeing the world, about freedom.
After Adrian, I promised myself I wouldn’t be so quick to get caught up in someone again.
Yet here Theo stands, as if conjured from the past, his presence as intoxicating as the wine in my glass.
My fingers tighten around the stem of the glass as I glance down at it.
The deep pink liquid swirls under the dim golden light of the bar.
It’s still relatively full. The smallest, most subtle of gestures, but Theo catches it immediately, his perceptive gaze locking onto my movement. Of course, he notices. He always did.
A slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips, the kind that has always been equal parts charming and maddening. "Let me get you and your friend a bottle," he says smoothly, his voice warm, easy, like no time has passed at all. "Consider it an apology for nearly ruining your journal entry."
Before I can even open my mouth to respond, a waiter passes by, and Theo, ever confident, lifts a hand.
"Je pourais avoir une autre bouteille," he says, nodding toward my glass and requesting the exact bottle of wine I’m drinking in impeccable French.
"C'est pour la belle femme." His eyes lock on mine and I can feel the blush rising up my cheeks, even though I am unsure what he's said exactly.
Damn him and damn his sexy French voice.
My lips part, ready to protest, but the words never quite make it out.
I shouldn’t be surprised that he already knows what I’m drinking, just as he always used to know my coffee order, the way I took my tea, the kind of books I’d get lost in.
He hasn’t forgotten, and there’s something about that realisation that makes my chest tighten in a way I don’t expect.
I watch as he slips the waiter a few crisp notes before the man can even confirm the order. That effortless charm, the way he moves through the world like everything bends to his will—it’s both impressive and deeply frustrating.
"You always did have a way of making decisions for me," I murmur, raising an eyebrow at him.
Theo chuckles, leaning slightly against the table, his eyes twinkling with something playful, something familiar. "Only the ones I know you’d make anyway," he counters, his gaze holding mine just a beat too long, like he’s trying to read between the lines of my expression.
I exhale, a small shake of my head betraying my amusement.
The energy between us is electric, humming with nostalgia, recognition, and something else I’m not quite ready to name.
Around us, the bar continues its lazy rhythm—glasses clinking, soft laughter rolling through the air.
It’s a perfect night, too perfect, and for a moment, I wonder if this is fate’s way of testing me.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms loosely, studying him. "Alright then, Theo," I say, a smirk playing on my lips. "Since you’re so eager to throw your money around, I suppose I can spare a few minutes to humour you."
Theo grins, boyish and irresistible. "That’s all I ask, Celia." And just like that, the night shifts, the past bleeding effortlessly into the present.