I take my turn when she asks about my work. Being anelectrician isn’t glamorous, but I lean into the ridiculous parts—nearly getting shocked because someone lied about cutting power, a raccoon in an attic staring me down while I tried to swap out wiring.
She laughs silently, shoulders shaking, hand over her mouth.
I like that soundless laugh. I like being the reason it happens.
Every so often, I try a sign or two from class—how, good, you, name. Sometimes I butcher them, my fingers off by just enough to change the meaning. She corrects me gently, taking my hand in hers, repositioning my fingers.
“Like this,” she mouths, eyes focused on the shape she’s making.
Her skin is warm against mine. The contact is chaste, but my body doesn't care. Heat licks up my forearm, low and insistent. I pull in a slow breath, locking it down.
Easy. Don’t be that guy. You’re not here to get her into bed. You’re here to earn her trust, I think to myself.
“Thanks,” I say when I get it right. “I’m trying.”
She pulls her phone back out, types something, then pushes it toward me.
Bayleigh: I can tell. Most people don’t make it past the alphabet.
“Most people?”
She hesitates, thumbs hovering. Then she shrugs and writes anyway.
Bayleigh: Old friends. A guy I dated once. Teachers. They start, then it’s “too hard” or “too slow” and they stop.
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching.
Something in my chest twists.
I think of my class. The parents desperate to talk to their kids. The teacher who wants to include everyone. Me, the random electrician who signed up because one omega made the world tilt.
I reach across the table, slow enough that she can see me coming, and rest my hand palm-up between us.
She lifts her gaze, curious.
I sign clumsily but clearly.
I stay.
Her breath catches. Just a little. But I see it.
The waitress arrives with our plates, breaking the moment. Burgers, fries, and condiments. Sizzling hot and smelling like heaven.
Bayleigh signsthank youwithout thinking about it. The waitress smiles, a little surprised, and signsyou’re welcomeback—awkward but earnest.
Bayleigh’s brows shoot up. She looks at me, delighted.
“She’s better than me,” I mutter, and that earns me another eye roll and a grin.
We eat. We talk. We text across the table like a couple of teenagers. It’s easy in a way nothing’s been for a long time.
Every now and then, the world intrudes—hockey, the rivalry, Benton—but it feels farther away than ever.
Right now, it’s just us.
The air outside has turned colder by the time we leave.
I open the door for her again. She steps out into the night, breath puffing in a faint cloud. Streetlights cast halos on the pavement; the river down the block shimmers dark and quiet.
