Erin had not expected Jamie to hug her. She certainly had not expected the quick, warm press of lips against her cheek. But now, as they sat across from each other in the soft glow of the restaurant, Erin found herself grateful that Jamie had made the first move. It melted the tension out of her shoulders and set the night into motion on a current she had not realized she wanted to be swept along by.
The restaurant was quiet but lively, filled with the kind of low hum that came from couples leaning close over their wine, the clink of cutlery, the muted laughter from a table in the corner. Erin had chosen it carefully: not too formal, not too loud, a place that made conversation the centerpiece instead of an afterthought. Now she watched Jamie across the table, the candlelight glinting off her hair, and thought she could sit here all night without caring if the food ever came.
When their plates did arrive—roasted chicken for Erin and pasta tangled with herbs and parmesan for Jamie—neither of them gave the dishes much attention. Jamie twirled a few noodles absentmindedly, lifting them with a fork and then setting the utensil back down as another story spilled from her lips. Erin managed a few bites between her own laughter, but the rhythm of the evening quickly made it clear that the food was secondary.
It was the conversation that mattered.
Jamie talked about her first weeks in Boston, about how strange it felt to be the new person in a newsroom again. She told stories of bizarre viewer emails that made Erin snort into her glass. Erin countered with tales from the field, the odd requests that came with her job, the way people sometimestreated her like both a spokesperson and a complaint desk.
By the time the first round of wine was nearly gone, Erin realized she had not once felt the itch to check her phone. She had not been aware of the clock ticking in her head like she usually was, measuring how much time she could spare before duty called again. Jamie was so present that Erin found herself present too, tethered to the brightness of her laugh, the way her green eyes lit with curiosity when Erin spoke, the warmth in her voice when she leaned in and asked a follow-up question instead of steering the conversation back to herself.
At one point, Jamie nudged her pasta aside completely, propping her chin in her hand. “You’re actually funnier than you look, you know.”
Erin raised a brow, her mouth quirking. “And what exactly do I look like?”
Jamie’s gaze raked over her with mock seriousness. “Like someone who hasn’t cracked a smile since 2012.”
The laugh that burst out of Erin was unguarded, full and surprised. She shook her head, trying to tamp it down, but Jamie’s answering grin only widened.
“Maybe you’re just bringing it out of me,” Erin said, softer now.
Jamie tilted her head, studying her with something that felt dangerously close to tenderness. Erin’s chest tightened.
The server came by, offering dessert menus, but Erin shook her head. “Not here. There’s a place down the block with ice cream. Feels more fitting.”
Jamie sat up straight, eyes flashing with delight. “Ice cream? That’s perfect.”
They settled the check, their abandoned meals evidence of how thoroughly they had been consumed by each other instead. Erin held the door open as they left, the cool evening air brushing across her face, carrying the city’s restless hum with it.
Their shoulders brushed as they walked, neither stepping aside, and Erin was acutely aware of the warmth radiating from Jamie even through her sweater. Jamie swung her arms loosely, like she was too buoyant to keep still. Erin wondered if her own posture was giving away the same thing, that jittery energy thrumming in her veins.
The ice cream shop was small and bright, all chalkboard menus and cheerful scoops of color lined in the case. A group of college students crowded one side, and a mother with two children waited ahead of them. Erin’s eyes skimmed the flavors without much interest, but Jamie tilted her head at the board as though she were deciphering something important.
“You can tell a lot about a person from their ice cream order,” Jamie said, deadpan.
Erin glanced at her. “Oh really?”
“Absolutely. Like, you strike me as… plain vanilla.”
Erin narrowed her eyes. “Plain?”
Jamie broke into laughter. “Okay, maybe not plain. Classic. Steady. Reliable.”
“Reliable I’ll take. Plain I won’t.”
Erin ordered chocolate chip, mostly to see Jamie’s exaggerated gasp. Jamie chose strawberry, deciding it said she was approachable and bright and not, in fact, internally combusting over the woman standing next to her. They carried their cones outside to a metal table under string lights, the bulbs casting a soft golden halo over the sidewalk.
The night air was crisp, the kind of early chill that hinted at the season shifting. Erin barely noticed it. Jamie leaned across the table, ice cream dripping in slow rivulets down her cone, and launched into a story about her first live hit in Colorado, how she had nearly forgotten the name of the mayor mid-sentence. Erin laughed until her side hurt, wiping at her eyes, the sound so unguarded it startled her all over again.
The ice cream softened quickly, pooling at the edges of the cones, but neither of them cared. They were too busy talking, too lost in the rise and fall of each other’s voices. Erin found herself memorizing details she should not: the way Jamie’s hair caught the light, the faint smudge of pink at the corner of her lips from the strawberry scoop. She caught herself thinking,I could get used to this, and quickly shoved the thought aside, though it lingered anyway.
Eventually, Erin pushed back from the table, standing with a small stretch. “Come on. I’m walking you to your car.”
Jamie’s eyes sparkled. “Very old-fashioned of you.”
“I prefer polite.”
They strolled back down the block, conversation slowing into an easy quiet. Erin felt the weight of the moment gathering, the air thick with something unspoken. When they reached the lot, Jamie stopped by her car and turned toward her, hesitation flickering across her face.
