And not just the surface-level, ‘I’m shy and hate talking about myself’ kind of thing. No, it’s something far deeper than that. Raw and frayed. Like he’s holding himself together with threadbare string and stubborn willpower.
But even so, there were flashes, tiny moments where that tension cracked open. When he teased me about still going to that same grimy coffee shop by the office, his eyes sparked with genuine amusement. When our hands brushed over the breadbasket and he didn’t pull away immediately. When he smiled for real, like he forgot to be afraid of it.
In those moments, he looked alive.
Like maybe I wasn’t imagining all of it. Like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the only one who left that dinner a little bit wrecked in the best possible way.
I let out a breath and tip my head back against the cushion, letting it thunk against the fabric. The ceiling’s no help, as usual. My phone buzzes against my chest and for one traitorous second my heart vaults into my throat.
Maybe it’s him. Maybe he changed his mind and sent a second message. Maybe he…
Nope.
It’s just the group chat. More useless memes and overzealous yelling about movie night logistics.
I should care. But right now, it feels like noise. White static beneath the hum of something far more important.
I swipe the notification away and pull up Jade’s message again. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, mind racing with possible replies.
‘Me too. You were kind of the highlight of my week.’
No. Too much. Way too much.
‘Glad we did it. Hope we can do it again sometime?’
…Maybe. But even that feels like it’s teetering too close to eager.
‘It meant a lot to me too.’
Almost.
I almost hit send.
But then I don’t.
Because I remember the way he looked tonight, eyes darting like he was caught between fight and flight. Like being near me felt good but dangerous, like every shared smile was setting off alarm bells in his head.
I don’t want to scare him off.
So instead, I just heart the message. Quiet. Steady. Letting him know I saw it, letting him know I’m still here. No pressure. No chase.
I set the phone down on the coffee table, farther away this time, and force myself to stand. My body feels restless, jittering with energy I can’t burn off. I go to brush my teeth, just to give my hands something to do.
Otherwise, I will end up writing him a three-paragraph message about how I’ve missed him. How I still think about him making dumb jokes in our old break room. How I want to know him now,not just the man he used to be, but the man sitting across from me tonight with all those new, unreadable layers.
By the time I crawl into bed, I’m still buzzing. Not from caffeine. Not from wine. From him.
From the weight of that quiet little message. From the unbearable hope that this thing, whatever it is, might not be as one-sided as I’ve feared.
The way he looked at me when I made him laugh. The way his fingers trembled when he reached for his glass. The way he kept checking his expression, as if afraid to let too much show.
Every stolen glance, every brush of his hand, every half-smile that never quite turned into a full one.
And the way he said, “This isn’t a date,” like he was trying to convince himself more than me.
But itfeltlike a date.
I know it’s too soon. I know I could be reading too much into a few short hours and a handful of glances. But I also know what I felt tonight.
