Chapter 4: The first contact
The minutes stretched, rubbery and thin. Peter stood near the shopping center, a concrete island in the flow of afternoon pedestrians. He’d been there twenty minutes early. Now, he was five minutes past the agreed time. Every knot in his stomach pulled tighter.
Maybe it was happening again. Maybe this was an elaborate, cruel joke.
Then he saw her. A woman, cutting through the crowd with a purposeful, athletic gait. Tight black leggings, a grey crop top that revealed a strip of toned, olive-skinned abdomen. A small gym bag slung over one shoulder. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe ponytail. She scanned the area, not seeing him, her expression one of mild impatience.
It was her. The photos didn’t do her justice. She was shorter than he’d imagined, compact and dense with muscle. The definition of her stomach was clear even from a distance, a complex landscape of ridges and planes. He felt a sudden, dizzying wave of disbelief. This person, who existed in pixels and fantasies, was here, in the same dirty air, looking at the same tram timetable.
His legs moved before his brain authorized it. He took a few stumbling steps toward her.
“Eva?”
She turned. Her eyes found him, traveled up and down his frame in a quick, assessing sweep. A smile broke, bright and surprisingly warm, erasing the impatience.
“Peter. Hey. You look exactly like your voice notes.” Her voice was lower than he remembered from their brief call, slightly rough around the edges.
“I… you’re here,” he managed, the words feeling stupid the moment they left his mouth.
“Told you I would be.” She shifted her bag. “Lead the way. This neighborhood’s confusing.”
They began to walk. Peter was hyper-aware of everything: the scent of her coconut shampoo mixed with fresh sweat, the sound of her sneakers on the pavement, the way people glanced at her as they passed. He kept a careful foot of space between them.
“How was the trip?” he asked, the question feeling absurdly normal.
“Long. The train smelled like old sandwiches and regret. Standard issue.” She glanced at him. “You nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Me too.”
“You are?”
“A little. Different vibe, this. Not a hotel room with some guy who just pulls out cash. This feels more… personal.” She said it casually, as if discussing the weather. “I saw you cleaned up. For me?”
He flushed. “How could you tell?”
“The nervous energy is practically steaming off you. And you keep clenching and unclenching your fists. You’re either about to fight someone or you’re trying to calm down.”
He forced his hands to relax. “The second one.”
They reached his building, a drab postwar block. The stairwell smelled of cabbage and cleaning fluid. “It’s not much,” he said, fumbling with his keys.
“It’s a place. That’s all we need.”
He pushed the door open to his living room. He had cleaned, obsessively. The beer bottles were gone, the surfaces dusted, the old wrestling posters straightened. The air smelled sharply of lemon spray. It felt like a museum of his normal life, hastily sanitized.
Eva walked in, dropping her bag by the door. She took it in with another slow scan. Her eyes lingered on the printed screenshots from trampling videos, taped clumsily to the wall beside his TV. She didn’t comment on them. Instead, she walked to the center of the room, on the worn rug, and turned to face him.
“Okay,” she said, exhaling. The casual confidence from the street seemed to settle into something more focused. “We’re here. No flu, no business class emergencies. Just us.” She patted her stomach, the sound a soft thud against firm muscle. “And this.”
Peter just stared, his mind utterly blank. Every scenario he’d imagined for years evaporated. This was too real.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked, a faint smile playing on her lips. “We can just talk for a bit. Ease into it. You made it this far. That’s the hard part.”
“I don’t know where to start,” he admitted, his voice quiet.