My lips parted, and heat bloomed in my stomach and lower, unexpected and intense.
We stared at each other across the table, both of us suddenly unable to speak.
Oh.
Oh.
I yanked my hand back, curling my fingers into my palm.
“Sorry,” I said automatically, though I wasn’t entirely sure what I was apologizing for.
He swallowed hard, and when he spoke, his voice was low and scratchy. “That’s what my cousin Nate keeps telling me.” He cleared his throat. “And now you. If I’m not careful, I might actually start to believe it.”
Iwantedhim to believe it. Needed him to, somehow.
Because this Luke—the one who admitted his fears and listened without trying to fix everything and looked at me like I mattered—this was someone I could actually fall for.
Maybe wasalreadyfalling for, if I was being honest with myself.
After Eric, after this year, I should have been running for the nearest exit at the first hint of feelings.
But I wasn’t running.
No. I was sitting here in this warm restaurant, eating lasagna, and feeling something dangerously close to hope unfurl in my chest.
Hope that maybe I hadn’t been wrong to say yes to coffee earlier. That maybe this strange, awkward, brilliant man who bought flowers for nursing homes and let himself be mothered by Italian grandmothers was exactly what I needed.
Even if I hadn’t known I needed it.
Rosa appeared again, this time with tiramisu, which again, neither of us had ordered.
“For after,” she said. “No arguments.”
She was, once again, gone before we could respond. For a woman who had to be at least seventy, Rosa moved with the speed and efficiency of someone half her age, weaving between tables, barking orders in Italian to the staff, and somehow keeping track of every single person in the restaurant. It was simultaneously intimidating and deeply impressive.
“I think she’s trying to make sure we stay,” I managed, grateful for the interruption even as part of me resented it.
“Yeah, she thinks I’m too isolated and that I need to ‘get out more.’” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Her words, of course.”
“And are you? Too isolated?”
The question hung between us, and I realized I was holding my breath waiting for his answer. Because I knew that bone-deep feeling of loneliness that came from being surrounded by people who knew your story but didn’t really know you. The isolation that came from being the talk of the town, from everyone knowing your business but no one actuallyseeingyou. From being alone even when you weren’t.
Luke’s gaze dropped to his wine glass, his thumb tracing the stem absently. “I was when I first moved here. I barely left the house except for necessities. But lately …” He paused, andhis expression became more open, more vulnerable as his eyes locked on mine. “Lately, I’ve been finding reasons to get out more.”
He didn’t say “because of you,” but he didn’t have to. It was written all over his face, in the way his voice softened, and in the way he couldn’t seem to look away from me.
Something in my chest loosened because I’d been finding reasons too, hadn’t I? Reasons to linger in his kitchen. Reasons to say yes to dinner instead of going home alone to my empty house or my freezing workshop.
I’d spent so much of this year alone—not just physically, but emotionally. Keeping people at arm’s length because it was easier than risking more hurt. But sitting here with Luke, I didn’t feel the need to guard myself the way I usually did.
He made me want to lean in instead of pull away. Made me want more of this. More of him.
Me too, I wanted to say.I’ve been looking for reasons to see you, too.
But that felt like too much, too soon. Like admitting something I wasn’t quite ready to say out loud yet.
“Talking to you is easier than I thought it would be,” I said instead.
