“Scary honest is how you keep from ending up sorry honest. But we can lighten up. Favorite color?”
“Lavender and red,” she said, smiling. “Both.”
“Figures. You wear both well.”
“Favorite indulgence?” she asked.
“You,” I said before my mind could censor my mouth. I let the beat sit, let honesty stay there and breathe.
Then I cleared my throat like I could smooth it out. “I mean . . . sweet tea with too much lemon.” My eyes stayed on hers. “But it might be you.”
She covered her face and laughed, the sound tumbling out unguarded. That sound did something to me. It made my shoulders drop. It made me want to earn that laugh on the hard days, the tired days, the days life tried to steal her softness.
Time stopped checking the clock. We drifted like old friends—movies we lied about seeing, the worst a student ever called us (her “mannish,” me “intimidating but coachable”), the best smell in The Pour House (cinnamon rolls), and whether God laughs (He does).
At some point, she lay on her side, phone propped, cheek in her palm. I lay back in a fresh T-shirt, and we mirrored each other without trying—two tired people resting in a conversation like a small sanctuary.
“You’re staring again,” she said eventually, a soft accusation.
“I’m building muscle memory. So when I see you in person again, I don’t waste time trying to memorize you.”
“What makes you think you’re seeing me again?” she teased, but there wasn’t a wall in it.
“I’m competent,” I said confidently.
Silence passed sweetly for a second. She hid another smile, then let it go.
“You make me nervous,” she confessed, barely above breath. “In a way that doesn’t feel . . . dangerous.”
“I’ll take care of the dangerous. You handle the nervous. We’ll meet in the middle.”
Her eyes softened as if I’d just tucked a blanket over them. “Okay, Roman.”
“Say my name like that again.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth said yes.
A yawn stole her whole face—cute, quiet, real. She didn’t try to be pretty; she just existed. That told me she felt safe.
“Go to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
“You don’t even know my schedule.”
“I know I’m making time, and I’ll work around yours.”
She chewed her lip, and I watched her think. “Don’t—don’t move too fast.”
“I move at the speed of trust. You set the pace. I’ll keep stride,” I answered honestly.
“Thank you,” she said and meant it.
“For what?”
“For not making me feel like a prize you gotta unbox the first night,” she said. “For . . . talking to me.”
I let a smile stretch slowly. “I like your voice.”
“I like yours,” she said, even quieter. “It sounds like a porch.”
