At thirty-four, Elena had stopped believing in cinematic coincidences. She believed in delayed trains and vanished hotel bookings. When the clerk at the Meridian told her only one suite remained, she accepted the key, determined to sleep for twelve uninterrupted hours.

Then the storm knocked out the lights.

A moment later, someone tapped at her door. A man stood in the corridor holding a candle in a brass holder. He was tall, dark-haired, and dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. Water glimmered on his shoulders.

“I’m Adrian,” he said. “The hotel says the emergency generator may take an hour. They’ve put candles in the rooms. I thought you might need one.”

“I have one,” Elena said, lifting her battery lamp from her suitcase.

He glanced at it, then smiled. “Then I’ve made a heroic journey for nothing.”

“Not entirely. You’ve provided entertainment.”

His laugh was low and warm. “May I offer you a glass of wine as compensation?”

She should have refused. She was tired and had promised herself an evening without conversation. But rain silvered the windows, and Adrian’s smile made the corridor welcoming.

“One glass,” she said.

The suite overlooked the old harbor. Candlelight softened the furniture and turned the rain into silver threads. Adrian brought wine from the bar, and they sat on opposite ends of the sofa, discussing the city, their work, and the relief of being somewhere no one expected anything from them.