“You look…” The words caught in my throat before I could finish. I bit them back, unsure if saying them would cross some invisible line. Still, the thought burned in my chest.
She turned to me, a faint smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I look what?” she asked, tone light but eyes sharp. “Don’t say glowy. I already got that one tonight.”
I looked at her for a long second, not smirking, not teasing but really seeing her. The curve of her jaw. The quiet exhaustion around her eyes. The way I wanted to lean into her.
“I was gonna say beautiful,” I said finally. Honest. Steady. No way out of it now.
Her breath hitched—not much, but enough for me to notice—and she looked away like the river might rescue her.
It didn’t.
She recovered quickly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Are you drunk?”
“No.”
“Then why are you being... nice?”
I let out a breath. “I feel like I was nice the last time I saw you. You said it yourself, we had a good time that night.”
She stood then, arms folding across her chest. “And then you’ve been ignoring me ever since.”
“I haven’t—”
“You have.” Her gaze flicked to mine. “We live in the same building, and I haven’t run into you once.”
I stood, and she looked up at me, chin tilted with quiet confidence. Her eyes lingered, tracing a path from one of mine to the other, then down to my mouth before finding their way back again.
Without thinking, I stepped closer. The river moved behind her, catching the glow of the lights and breaking it into a shimmer. One stubborn curl had fallen loose, brushing her cheek. I reached out and tucked it back, my fingers grazing warm skin.
I didn’t go around touching people. That wasn’t me. But something about her made it hard to stay still.
“I’m not trying to ignore you,” I said, voice lower than before. “I think I’m just…” I huffed out a breath and shook my head. “Shit, maybe I am drunk.”
That made her smile.
“Every time we cross paths, I feel drawn to you. Even when I know I probably shouldn’t be. I catch myself walking the long way behind the studio, hoping you’ll be out there. Even if we don’t talk. Even if you’re just standing in the sun or scolding that dog of yours.”
She didn’t say anything, but the softness in her expression said enough.
“I might be guilty of ghosting you. But it’s not like you came knocking on my door, either.”
She stared at me, an unreadable expression passing over her face.
“The only thing I’m guilty of,” she said, almost to herself, “is trying to figure out where I fit in here. And it’s getting easier, but I still feel... unmoored sometimes. Everyone has their thing. Their people. And I’m starting over again.”
She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her scarf.
“I’m about to be a mom,” she added, softer now. “And I don’t really have anyone here other than my brother, who’s doing hisbest to keep me at arm’s length. I have no real tribe. Some days it feels like I’m doing it with duct tape and blind optimism.”
I took another step closer.
Close enough to see her scarf sliding off one shoulder. Close enough to notice the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose, the tiny tremor in her bottom lip. The wind tugged another curl loose, brushing against her neck.
She turned slightly, her gaze landing on the bronze statue beside us—a woman frozen mid-wave, a dog at her feet, both of them looking out at the horizon.
“You know about her?” she asked quietly.
I glanced at the statue. “The Waving Girl. Florence something.”
