The revelation hit her like a tidal wave on a stormy day, leaving her breathless, defenseless. The man in front of her, the doctor with the intense gaze, the gentleman who had saved her from a fall, was the same one whose deep voice had protected her in the jungle of her nightmares.
«Is it him?» she thought, her mind spinning in a whirlwind. «Is he the man of my dreams? Literally, the man who saved me in them… but, even though I didn't see his face in that strange dream, this voice, this presence… Why has this happened? What kind of cosmic game is this?»
"A drink… would be nice," she managed to say, her voice barely a whisper, but it was enough.
Damien's smile widened, a slow, seductive curve that made her skin tingle. "Perfect. Allow me." With a natural elegance, he guided her to a small table for two in an even more intimate corner of the restaurant, a place that seemed designed for secrets and confessions.
And so, what began as a clumsy collision transformed into an evening suspended outside of time.
As the night progressed, Lysandra couldn't help but feel increasingly drawn to him. It was much more than his handsome features; it was the way he spoke, a calm and confident cadence that enveloped her, the way he tilted his head slightly when she shared an anecdote about her work, making her feel as if she were the only person in the world. His smile, when it appeared, was an event: sometimes a quick, playful flash, other times a slow, magnetic curve that promised more than it showed. And his body… it moved with a natural fluidity, without superfluous gestures, each movement imbued with a confidence that was incredibly seductive. His charm wasn't ostentatious or aggressive; it was a powerful, steady undercurrent, pulling her further and further into his orbit.
They talked about everything and nothing. About the art of restoring ancient maps, about their travels around the world, about Stoic philosophy, about the beauty of a Caribbean sunset. He told her, without going into too much detail, about the complexity of his work as a surgeon, the pressure of holding a life in his hands. She, to her own surprise, told him about her love for history, about how she felt that objects held the echo of the lives they had touched. He didn't look at her as if she were crazy; he listened with such profound attention that Lysandra felt, for the first time, completely seen and understood.
The conversation was so absorbing, so easy, that the world around them faded away. The sound of other diners, the troubadour's music, the clinking of silverware… it all became a distant murmur. It was like being in front of an ancient hourglass whose hands, instead of marking the passage of time, spun in a hypnotic circle from left to right and back again, suspending the moments in an eternal present. Time with him didn't run; it danced.
And suddenly, almost as if coming out of a trance, Lysandra blinked and glanced at the restaurant's wall clock. Nearly three hours had passed. Three hours that had felt like ten minutes.
In that same instant, Damien's expression changed. He looked at his own wristwatch, an elegant and discreet piece, and a shadow of regret crossed his face. He stood up from the table with a quickness that contrasted with the calm of the entire evening.
"Lysandra," he said, his deep voice now holding a note of urgency and a genuine apology. "I'm afraid I must go. This has been… an absolutely unexpected and wonderful evening, but I have an unavoidable engagement that I cannot postpone."
Lysandra, still under the spell of their conversation, was frozen. "Already? But…"
"I know," he interrupted gently, gesturing with a hand for her not to stand. "Believe me, if I could stop time, I would do it in this very instant." He leaned in slightly, his dark eyes fixed on hers, and for a second, Lysandra thought he was going to kiss her. The air crackled between them. But he didn't.
Quickly, he signaled the waiter, paid the bill for both of them with silent efficiency, left a generous tip on the table, and turned to her one last time. "I hope that fate, in its peculiar sense of humor, makes us collide again soon." With that last enigmatic phrase and a smile that was both a promise and a farewell, he turned and left, his figure disappearing into the Cancún night as abruptly as he had entered her life.
Lysandra was left alone at the table, her heart pounding with a mixture of euphoria and a sudden desolation. The magic was broken. The bubble of suspended time had burst. And as she watched the door through which he had exited, a whirlwind of thoughts assaulted her, thoughts so alien to her controlled nature that she barely recognized herself.
«Why? Why did he leave like that?» And then, an even sharper self-criticism: «Why didn't I ask for his number? Why didn't I ask him where I could see him again? For God's sake, why couldn't I even steal a kiss when he leaned in like that, when everything in the universe seemed to be screaming for me to do it?»
She covered her face with her hands for a moment, feeling the heat of shame and longing. She didn't even recognize herself in this state. Never in her life had she been so completely enchanted, so disarmed by the mere presence of a man. He had arrived like a silent hurricane, wrapped her in the eye of the storm where all was calm and fascination, and then, he had gone, leaving her with the echo of his voice, the memory of his smile, and a heart that, for the first time, felt painfully, wonderfully, exposed.