Langston just watched me, that dark, unreadable expression softening into something close to wonder. Then, dead serious, he said, “Don’t look at me like that. I eat normal food sometimes.”
“Define normal,” I shot back, wiping salsa from my fingers.
He shrugged, casual. “Anything that doesn’t come with a wine pairing.”
That made me laugh again—real, unfiltered laughter that bubbled up before I could stop it. And the sound made him smile in a way I hadn’t seen before. Not polite. Not restrained. Just… warm.
We ate sitting shoulder to shoulder, our knees brushing under the table, talking about nothing and everything—the best tacos we’d ever had, whether pineapple belonged on pizza, how I used to make grilled cheese sandwiches for my sister when we were little.
At one point, a breeze caught my hair, and Langston reached out without thinking, tucking a strand behind my ear. His fingersbrushed my skin, and for a second, the world went still. Just him. Just us.
It was such a simple lunch, but it didn’t feel simple. It felt real.
Now, hours later, I’m staring out the passenger window, completely lost in thought, when I realize we’re not heading toward my apartment.
Or the hotel.
I turn to him. “Langston… where are we going?”
He doesn’t look away from the road. His hand tightens around mine—the same hand he’s barely let go of all day—and then he brings it to his mouth, brushing a soft kiss over my knuckles.
“I’m taking you home,” he says simply.
Before I can argue, he turns up the radio. The low hum of 90s alternative fills the car—gritty guitars and raspy vocals that make me smile. I didn’t picture Langston listening to this kind of music, but now that I hear it, it fits him. Quietly intense. A little rough around the edges.
I open my mouth to protest, but the way he looks—steady, calm, unbothered—tells me not to waste my breath.
So I don’t.
Instead, I lean back against the seat and let the music fill the silence. I’ll have dinner with him, I decide. Then I’ll call an Uber and go home.
That’s the plan.
I already called the Reserve earlier to tell them I wouldn’t make it in tonight. Langston wasn’t thrilled when I told him I hadn’t quit yet, but I reminded him that I needed to do it in person.
He’d sighed—long and resigned—but didn’t push.
Now, the city falls away, replaced by open roads, long stretches of green, and sky so wide it makes me forget everything else.
And maybe it’s the leftover warmth from the garden, or the taste of lime still lingering on my tongue, or the way his thumb strokes the back of my hand every so often…
But for the first time, being taken “home” by Langston Blackwell doesn’t sound so bad.
The car slows as the gate opens, revealing a long, winding drive lined with soft garden lights.
I expect glass and steel. Cold, sterile modernism that screamsmoneyand nothing else.
But when we pull up to the house, my breath catches.
It’s beautiful—warm and golden under the setting sun. Wide windows. A porch that looks actuallylived in.Flower boxes bursting with color. The kind of place that feels like a home, not a museum.
Langston parks, and before I can gather my thoughts, the front door swings open. A petite older woman with silver hair pulled into a bun steps out, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“You must be Sabrina,” she says, voice warm enough to melt every last piece of my nervousness. “I’m Mabel. It’s so good to finally meet you.”
Finally.
I blink. “You… knew I was coming?”
