“I don’t want distance.”
The words sank into me like heat.
“I’ll pick you up at six o’clock for dinner.” He smiled and walked away.
I gripped the steering wheel, heart pounding, the antique pillow caught under my arm like a lifeline.
Because for the first time in years, I didn’t want distance either.
And that terrified me.
Carson’s words echoed in the quiet parking lot long after he walked away, each one sinking deeper, turning warm and dangerous inside my chest.
I don’t want distance.
He said it like it was simple. Like it wasn’t the kind of sentence that rearranged my pulse and rattled every wall I’d ever put up. My fingers tightened around the steering wheel until my knuckles went pale. The antique pillow was still wedged under my arm, the fabric warm from where I’d crushed it against me like emotional armor.
A date?
Not a family holiday or a guided trip.
Dinner with just…us.
Carson turned back slightly, hands still tucked in his pockets, voice steady and maddeningly assured.
My brain short-circuited.
Dinner.
Dinner wasn’t distance. Dinner was something. Dinner was too much. Dinner was not a leadership opportunity, or a guiding assignment, or a casual “hey, let’s discuss logistics.” Dinner was… date-adjacent. Date-coded. Date-dangerous.
I stared through the windshield long after he disappeared into the street like the forest-scented ghost of my emotional downfall. Finally, I forced air back into my lungs.
“No,” I whispered to myself. “No, no, no. How is he so calm? Why is he calm? Why am I not calm?”
The pillow offered no answers. It just sat there, vibrant and mustard-yellow and offensively comforting.
I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes. I could still feel the warmth in Carson’s voice, the sincerity lodged beneath the teasing. He hadn’t demanded anything from me. He hadn’t pushed. He simply said the thing I wasn’t brave enough to say first.
I didn’t want distance either.
And that was exactly why I felt like running.
But I didn’t drive away. I didn’t do the thing I’d always done, which was to put space between myself and whatever scared me most.
I just sat there, breathing unevenly, replaying the way he’d looked at me when he saidI’ll pick you up at six o’clock.
As if it weren’t a question.
As if he knew I’d say no.
The nerve of him.
The audacity.
The infuriating, irresistible steadiness of someone who didn’t bolt.
Finally, with a shaky exhale, I put the Subaru in drive.
