He nodded and wrote. “And we reconnected when.”
“Two months ago.” I underlined it. Commitment matters.
He rubbed his jaw. “We could say online. Safe. Dull.”
I stared at him. “That is tragic.”
He smiled. “Farmers market.”
“Better.” I started writing. “You knocked over a basket of apples. You helped me pick them up. Our hands touched. Someone’s tote bag played acoustic guitar music.”
He raised a brow. “You came prepared.”
“I have had time.”
He leaned back. “Aunt Ophelia hates sloppy stories.”
“Which is why this is clean,” I said. “High school sweethearts. Reconnected when I moved home. Truth with a costume.”
“Fewer lies.”
“Fewer funerals.”
We leaned over the table, coffee cups half empty, pens clicking. The diner sat quiet around us. Light from the windows softened everything.
Jason looked up. “Pet names.”
I braced. “I regret agreeing to this already.”
“Boo Boo.”
“I will fake my own death.”
“Honey.”
“No.”
“Babe.”
“I will move again.”
He smiled like a man with nothing to lose. “Wolfie.”
I pointed my pen at him. “Careful.”
“Snuggle-bear.”
“No.”
We stopped and stared at each other.
“No,” we said together.
The laugh came out before I could stop it. It landed between us and stayed. It felt easy. Familiar. Dangerous in a quiet way.
Jason cleared his throat. “So. Pet names are out.”
“A gift to everyone.”
