A date in a cafe in Paris

The café was called Le Petit Jardin, and it was exactly the kind of place tourists loved—small round tables with wrought-iron chairs positioned on the sidewalk, colorful awnings overhead, and a chalkboard menu featuring items in elaborate cursive that Harry couldn't quite decipher. They chose a table near the back, tucked into a corner where the autumn sun filtered through the leaves of a nearby tree, dappling their skin with shifting patterns of light and shadow.

The table was smaller than Harry had anticipated, forcing their knees to exist in the same limited space beneath it. Every time Samantha shifted in her chair, her leg would brush against his, and each contact sent small jolts of electricity through his nervous system. He tried to give her more room, angling his legs to the side, but that just made the position awkward and uncomfortable.

"Sorry," he said for the third time when their knees bumped again. "These tables are—"

"It's fine," Samantha interrupted with a smile. "Paris doesn't believe in personal space, apparently. Just go with it."

So Harry relaxed his legs and let their knees touch occasionally, trying to act like the contact didn't make his pulse race. They ordered coffee—espresso for her, café crème for him—and Samantha insisted on trying the crème brûlée she'd spotted on the dessert menu.

"I know it's like three in the afternoon and not dessert time, but when in Paris, right?" she said, her eyes bright with excitement.

"Absolutely," Harry agreed, charmed by her enthusiasm. "Life's too short to follow dessert rules."

When the crème brûlée arrived, Samantha picked up her spoon and cracked through the caramelized sugar top with clear satisfaction. Harry watched as she brought the first spoonful to her lips, watched her mouth close around it, watched her tongue dart out to catch a small bit of caramel that clung to her bottom lip. The motion was innocent, ****, but it did something to Harry's body that was decidedly not innocent.

Blood rushed south, and Harry felt his cock begin to harden in his trousers. He shifted in his chair, crossing his legs in an attempt to hide the growing bulge, but that just made it worse—the pressure against his length only increased his arousal. Within seconds he was half-hard, and within a minute he was fully erect, straining uncomfortably against his zipper.

This was not happening. He was not getting an erection in public, in broad daylight, at a café in Paris, just from watching a woman eat dessert. Except he absolutely was, and there was nothing he could do about it. His face flushed hot, and he grabbed the cloth napkin from his lap and positioned it strategically over the front of his trousers, trying to look casual about it.

"You okay?" Samantha asked, pausing with her spoon halfway to her mouth. "You look a little flushed."

"Fine," Harry said quickly. "Just warm. The sun, you know."

But Samantha's eyes had dropped to his lap, to the napkin he'd placed there, and Harry watched understanding dawn in her expression. Her cheeks colored immediately, a pink flush spreading across her face and down her neck. But instead of looking disgusted or uncomfortable, something else flickered in her dark green eyes—something that looked almost like reciprocal arousal.

Harry watched as Samantha shifted in her chair, her thighs pressing together slightly. Was she...? No, he was imagining things. Except she shifted again, and her breathing had changed, becoming slightly shallower. The collar of her cardigan seemed too tight, and she tugged at it absently.

"So," Samantha said, her voice slightly higher than normal, "tell me about London. What's your favorite part about living there?"

Harry latched onto the change of subject gratefully, trying to focus on words instead of the persistent hardness in his trousers. "Arsenal's home stadium is there, which is pretty essential for me. But honestly, I love the mix of old and new—you can walk past a building that's been there for four hundred years and then turn the corner to find some completely modern structure. It's this weird blend of history and progress."

"That sounds amazing," Samantha said, and she seemed to be relaxing slightly, though her thighs remained pressed together. "New York is kind of the opposite—everything's constantly being torn down and rebuilt. There's history, but it's harder to find."

"What do you love about it?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.

"The energy," Samantha said immediately. "You can feel it the moment you step outside—everyone's moving, going somewhere, doing something. It's exhausting but also kind of addictive. Like you're part of this massive, living thing."

Harry nodded, finding himself drawn into her description. "London has that too, in certain areas. The energy, I mean. Though it's probably more reserved. Very British about it."

Samantha laughed, and the sound made Harry's chest feel warm. "I can imagine. 'Excuse me, terribly sorry, just trying to participate in the frantic pace of city life, my apologies for existing.'"

"That's exactly it," Harry said with a grin. "You've nailed the British experience."

Their conversation continued, flowing more naturally now despite—or perhaps because of—the sexual tension humming beneath it. They talked about books they'd read, music they loved, the terrible reality TV shows they were secretly addicted to. Harry found himself finishing Samantha's sentences, and she did the same to him, their thoughts aligning in ways that should have been impossible for two people who'd known each other for less than an hour.

"I usually hate sports," Samantha was saying, "but there's something about the loyalty aspect that I find fascinating."

"Yeah, exactly!" Harry's eyes lit up like a schoolchild, "It's not really about the game, it's about being part of something bigger than yourself."

"Yes!" Samantha said, leaning forward in her excitement. "That's what I've been trying to explain to people for years, but they just think I'm—"

"Overthinking it," Harry supplied. "But you're not."

They stared at each other, both slightly breathless from the rapid-fire exchange of ideas. The café noise around them—other patrons chatting, traffic passing, birds singing in the trees—seemed to fade until it was just the two of them in this small bubble of connection.

Harry's cock was still hard, though he'd almost forgotten about it in the excitement of conversation. Samantha's nipples were visible through her cardigan and blouse, two points pressing against the fabric that she didn't seem aware of. Their bodies were responding to each other even as their minds connected.

The check arrived, and they both reached for it simultaneously. Their fingers collided, and the touch—skin on skin—sent a jolt through both of them so intense that Samantha actually gasped.

"Sorry, I—" Harry started.

"No, I should—" Samantha said at the same time.

They pulled their hands back, laughing nervously at the awkward fumbling. "You pay this time, I'll get the next one," Samantha offered.

"Next one?" Harry asked, his heart lifting. "So there's going to be a next one?"

"Well, yeah," Samantha said, like it was obvious. "I mean, unless you don't want to—"

"I definitely want to," Harry interrupted quickly. "I just didn't want to assume."

"Assume away," Samantha said with a smile. "I'm normally terrible at this. Like, catastrophically bad. I once spilled an entire glass of wine on a first date within the first five minutes. And another time I accidentally called a guy by my ex's name, if you consider dating a guy twice and being stood up before first base an 'ex'."

Harry found himself laughing, genuinely and fully. "I'm usually terrible at this too. I overthink everything to the point where I can't actually function like a normal human. My mates say I have the social skills of someone who learned about dating from textbooks."

"So we're both disasters," Samantha said, and there was something almost relieved in her voice. "That's actually kind of perfect."

"Yeah?" Harry asked.

"Yeah," Samantha confirmed. "Because I don't have to pretend to be good at this. I can just be... awkward. And you'll understand."

"I absolutely understand," Harry said, his chest feeling impossibly warm. "Awkward is my natural state of being."

Samantha reached across the table and squeezed his hand briefly, and Harry felt that same electric connection from their handshake earlier. When she pulled away, his skin felt cold where her fingers had been.

"I'm really glad Dr. Genet's science worked," Samantha said quietly. "Because I don't think I would have ever met you otherwise. Our circles don't overlap, our continents don't even overlap, and I'm not the kind of person guys usually notice in a crowd."

"That's mental," Harry said immediately. "You're... I mean, you're brilliant. The way you talk, the way your brain works—it's incredible. I've never met anyone who thinks like you do."

Samantha's flush deepened, and she ducked her head slightly. "You're just saying that because our DNA says you have to."

"No," Harry said firmly. "The DNA got us in the same room. Everything else is just... you. And I really like you."

The words hung in the air between them, more honest and **** than first-date conversation was supposed to be. But they'd already gone past normal first-date territory the moment they'd learned their genetic compatibility was one hundred percent.

"I really like you too," Samantha said, meeting his eyes. "Which is weird because I literally just met you, but it doesn't feel like I just met you. It feels like I've known you for ages."

"Same," Harry agreed. "It's like my brain is playing catch-up to what my body already knows."

Samantha's eyes darkened slightly at his words, and Harry realized what he'd said—the implication of bodies knowing things, responding to each other. The heat between them, which had been simmering beneath their conversation, suddenly felt much more present.

"We should probably get going," Samantha said, though she made no move to stand. "Before we, um. Before this gets too..."

"Intense?" Harry supplied.

"Yeah," Samantha said. "That."