Jamie studied her for a beat. “I didn’t want it to be anyone’s expense.”
“I know.” Erin drew a breath and let it go. “I keep replaying the moment. I keep thinking about all the ways I’m supposed to be a wall and how it felt to be anything but.”
“You’re allowed to be human,” Jamie said softly.
“That’s inconvenient,” Erin said, a smile tugging without her permission.
“Very,” Jamie said. “But I like it.”
They ate at the small table by the window. Jamie’s knee brushed Erin’s once, then didn’t move. Conversation found its own pace. Work. A TV show Jamie insisted would fix Erin’s taste in television. A neighborhood kid who kept trying to ride his skateboard down the stoop railing outside. Erin watched Jamie’s hands when she talked. She noticed how Jamie cut her pasta in the bowl because she hated the way long noodles smacked her chin. She noticed and could not believe she had a life where she noticed that.
Leo lay at their feet with a sigh like a judgment. Erin dropped a single sliver of zucchini and pretended it was an accident. Jamie didn’t call her out, but her mouth lifted at the corner.
When the plates were mostly empty and the wine had turned both their cheeks a little warm, Jamie tapped the white box with the gold ribbon.
“Do we eat these now, or do we pretend we’re adults with restraint?”
Erin slid the box closer. “I keep meaning to save one for breakfast. I never do.”
“I’ll write you a permission slip,” Jamie said. “Breakfast cannoli is an act of self-care.”
“Is that your reporter’s official stance?”
“It’s just good journalism.”
Erin laughed, then quieted. The moment stretched, not awkward, just full. She could feel the next thing between them. Not a line to cross. A door to open.
“I don’t do this,” she said.
“Cannoli on Mondays,” Jamie said. “I’ve been informed that’s a lie.”
“I don’t do this,” Erin said again, and forced herself not to look away. “I don’t invite people over. I don’t cook for them. I don’t sit at this table with someone and feel like I could get used to it.”
Jamie’s throat moved. “Okay.”
“I like you,” Erin said, and the truth of it settled in her chest like something finally in the right drawer. “I’m trying not to be reckless with that. With you. My job. All of it.”
Jamie met her where she was. “I like you too. I don’t need perfect. I just need honest.”
“I can do honest,” Erin said. “I can’t promise I won’t mess up again.”
“I don’t need a promise,” Jamie said. “I just need to know you’ll tell me when you’re scared or when work gets close to the part of you that doesn’t have room for me. I can handle that. I just can’t handle silence.”
Erin nodded once. “Okay.”
Jamie exhaled like it had been sitting in her for days. “Okay.”
It wasn’t a label. It didn’t need one. It was a shape they both recognizedanyway.
They cleared the dishes together, shoulder to shoulder at the sink. Jamie washed. Erin dried. The kitchen light hummed. Leo snored, then made a sound like a tiny trumpet and startled himself awake. Jamie laughed and bumped Erin’s hip with hers. Erin bumped back. It didn’t feel like a game. It felt like a language they both already spoke.
When the counters were clean, Jamie set the white box with the gold ribbon on the coffee table and slid onto the couch. Erin grabbed two small plates and a knife, then paused at the edge of the rug.
“Do you want the one with pistachios or the one with chocolate chips?”
“Dealer’s choice,” Jamie said, patting the cushion beside her.
Erin sat and turned toward her. She had a joke ready about equitable cannoli distribution, and then Jamie was closer, and the joke fell right out of her head.
