Every time she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear or tips her head to look at the flowers, I feel my restraint crack a little more.
I’ve always prided myself on control—every word, every deal, every movement measured. But with Sabrina, it’s different. The more I tell myself to keep my distance, the more I find reasons to touch her.
A brush of my fingers at the small of her back when she steps over a puddle. My hand catching her elbow when she stumbles on a stray stone. Each small touch feels like a shock under my skin, something primal that doesn’t belong to logic.
She glances back at me after the third time, eyes narrowing slightly. “You know, Icanwalk on my own.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t,” I murmur, close enough for her to hear the edge in my voice.
She huffs out a breath and starts forward again, her steps quicker this time. But a few yards later, her foot slips slightly on the gravel. I reach for her instinctively, my hand closing around hers before she even steadies herself.
Warm. Soft. Small against my palm.
She tries to pull back, muttering something under her breath, but I don’t let go.
My thumb strokes over the back of her hand once—light, unintentional, but it makes her stop. She looks up at me, brows lifted, waiting for me to release her.
I don’t.
I don’twantto.
I’ve never been a man who holds hands. Not with dates, not with lovers. It always felt too intimate, too exposed. But with Sabrina, it feels different. Like it’s not a weakness—it’s a claim.
Her pulse flutters in her wrist, quick and shallow, and I know she feels it too.
After a moment, she lets out a quiet sigh and stops trying to pull away.
We walk like that for the rest of the path—our fingers tangled, our steps matched. I tell myself it’s nothing, that it’s just a reflex. But I know better.
Because every time her hand tightens just slightly in mine, something in my chest loosens.
By the time the sun starts to dip, painting everything in gold, I realize something I shouldn’t.
This—her laughter, her warmth, her hand in mine—feels dangerously close to happiness.
And I don’t remember the last time I felt that.
Tacos and 90s Alt
Sabrina
Ican’t stop smiling.
The day replays in my head like a montage—sunlight filtering through leaves, the hum of bees, the warmth of his hand in mine. But the part I can’t shake is lunch.
When I said I was starving, Langston told me he had something “special” planned. I expected exactly what you’d expect from a man like him—some sleek, white-linen restaurant with waiters in bow ties and menus that don’t have prices.
But instead, he turned down a narrow lane near the edge of the gardens and parked in front of a bright teal food truck with the words “Taco King” painted in bold yellow across the side. The smell of grilled meat and cilantro hit the air instantly, mingling with the scent of fresh-cut grass and flowers.
He climbed out like it was the most natural thing in the world, no hesitation. Ordered for both of us—three tacos each, one chicken, one steak, one carnitas. No substitutions, no micromanaging. Just trust.
We sat at a small picnic table shaded by a massive oak tree. The bench creaked every time one of us moved, and the foil wrappers crinkled under our fingers.
He handed me a taco, and I stared at him over the top of it. “You don’t seem like a food truck kind of guy,” I teased.
He smirked. “You don’t seem like the type to assume things.”
I laughed around a bite of taco—and nearly groaned. The meat was perfectly seasoned, smoky, tender, dripping down my hand. I had to lean forward to keep the salsa from falling onto my lap.
