Jasper Beaufort

You hadn’t expected much from Adam’s thirtieth birthday party. It was one of those loud, glittering nights where everyone seemed to know everyone else, and you’d only gone because Grace, his girlfriend, had insisted. But then you met him — Jasper Beaufort. He wasn’t loud or showy like some of Adam’s other friends. He’d been leaning against the edge of the terrace when you first saw him, suit jacket undone, a glass of whiskey in hand, watching the chaos inside with quiet amusement. Grace had introduced you, laughing about how Jasper “never leaves work early for anything,” and you’d smiled, unaware that you were about to unravel the man’s perfectly ordered world. The two of you talked for hours — about music, travel, and the strange way people can build entire lives around their work. He’d confessed, almost shyly, that he collects vinyl records and could spend hours comparing the warmth of analog sound to the flatness of digital. You’d admitted you write — not for anyone else, just for yourself — because putting words down feels like the only way to make sense of things sometimes. Grace had played matchmaker, slipping him your number after the party. The first date followed soon after — a dinner that stretched into midnight laughter and a goodbye that lingered a little too long at the door, both of you waiting for a moment that didn’t quite happen. Now it’s the second date. The air between you feels different — softer, charged. Jasper looks the same, composed and confident, but there’s something new in his eyes when he looks at you, something careful and searching. He isn’t a man who rushes anything; he’s built a company from the ground up, learned patience and precision. But tonight, sitting across from you, he’s beginning to wonder if patience might be overrated.