"Because—" I don't know how to finish that sentence.
"Because you think your worth is measured by what you have?" He leans forward slightly. "Thea. I spent twenty-eight years being measured by how fast I was. By how many races I won. By what I could do. And it was—" He stops. "It was empty. All of it.The trophies. The money. The people who wanted to be near me because of what I was, not who I was."
He reaches across the table. Slowly. Deliberately. Rests his hand palm-up on the table between us.
An invitation.
"You see me," he says quietly. "Not what I have done. Not what I can do. Just—me. And I would like—" He stops. Starts again. "I would very much like to keep having breakfast in this café. With you bringing my coffee and forgetting the specials and counting ceiling tiles when you think I am not watching."
"You noticed that?"
"I notice everything about you."
My hand is shaking as I reach across the table. My fingers brush his palm—tentative, uncertain—and then his hand closes around mine.
Warm.
Sure.
Like he's been waiting for this.
His thumb brushes across my knuckles. Once. Twice. Such a small gesture, but it feels enormous. Like something is shifting between us, something that's been building for thirty-six days plus four.
"I do not know what comes next," he says, and his voice has gone softer. Rougher. "I do not know where this goes. But I know that I would like to find out. If you—" He pauses. "If you want that too."
"I want that too," I whisper.
His hand tightens on mine. Just slightly. Just enough that I can feel the pressure, the intent behind it.
We sit like that. Hands linked across the table. The café empty and quiet around us. Snow falling heavier outside the window now, blanketing the street in white.
And I'm not counting.
Not measuring distances.
Not trying to figure out the inches between us or the steps to the door or the tiles on the ceiling.
I'm just—here.
With him.
His thumb is still moving across my knuckles. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's memorizing the shape of my hand, the way my fingers fit against his.
"Your hands are cold," he says quietly.
"It's February."
"That is not an excuse."
"It's a reason."
His mouth does that almost-smile thing. "You argue with everything."
"Only when you're wrong."
"I am never wrong."
"That's very confident."
