She turned and walked back to the shop, disappearing inside. A minute later, she emerged with her purse slung over her shoulder.
"It's a beautiful day," she said. "We should walk."
"Okay."
And we did.
Side by side. Not touching. The city moving around us like we were the only still point in it.
And once again, I couldn't believe what the hell was happening.
11
JOY
My building never impressed anyone.
That was the first thing I thought as we climbed the narrow staircase together, the smell of sugar and yeast drifting up from the bakery below. Warm. Comforting. Familiar. The kind of scent that wrapped itself around you whether you wanted it to or not.
He followed a step behind me, feet heavy against the old wood, his presence filling the stairwell in a way that made the space feel even smaller. Too close. Too intimate. My pulse ticked up with every step, and I told myself it was just nerves.
Just nerves.
“This is me,” I said when we reached the third floor, fumbling slightly with my keys.
The hallway was short, lined with doors that had probably been painted a dozen times over the decades. The lighting was soft but dim, like the building preferred not to draw attention to itself.
I unlocked the door and stepped aside. “Welcome to … well. Everything.”
He paused in the doorway.
I watched his expression carefully as he took it in.
The condo was small—one long rectangle, really—but it was mine.
White walls. Pale wood floors. Big windows at the front that looked out over the street and let in afternoon light. The living room flowed straight into the kitchen, which flowed straight into everything else. A sofa I’d found secondhand and reupholstered myself. A small dining table with two mismatched chairs. Plants everywhere—pothos trailing from shelves, a fiddle leaf fig in the corner that I talked to when it looked sad.
Nothing flashy. Nothing secret.
He stepped inside and shut the door behind him, the sound final in a way that made my stomach flip.
“It smells like bread,” he said.
“Bakery downstairs,” I replied. “Fresh every morning. It’s dangerous.”
Something about that earned me a faint smile.
He moved slowly, deliberately, like he was cataloging exits without meaning to. His gaze traveled from the sofa to the bookshelves to the flowers on the counter—flowers I’d brought home from the shop, wild and loose and very Charleston.
“This feels …” He stopped, searching for the word. “Warm.”
I blinked.
Warm wasn’t what people usually said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I think.”
I set my bag down and kicked off my shoes. He followed suit, lining his boots up neatly by the door like they belonged there. The sight of that—of him treating my space with quiet respect—did something unexpected to my chest.
