She nodded slowly, studying me, something shifting in her expression for just a second.
“I was thinking,” I said, clearing my throat. “Now that things have calmed down a little… maybe we could try a second date. This weekend? If you’re free.”
Eliza froze. Not dramatically. Just a small, subtle stillness—like she was surprised I’d asked, or surprised she wanted to say yes.
“Nate,” she said quietly, “you’re busy. You have so much going on. Are you sure?—”
“Yes,” I said immediately.
She blinked, surprised. It made me wonder what had happened in her life to make her doubt her appeal.
I tried again, calmer, less eager. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Her mouth curved—not a smile, exactly, but something more careful. Hopeful.
“Okay,” she said. “We can make plans.”
Which I’d learned was Eliza-speak forI want to, but I don’t know if I should.
I nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”
From inside, Mabel tapped an order slip onto the counter and called, “Honey, if you don’t say an immediate yes to that one eventually, I’m putting decaf in your morning latte and telling everyone it’s a medical necessity.”
“Grandma!”
Mabel hummed innocently.
I laughed, taking a sip of my coffee as warmth spread through my chest—some from the drink, most from her.
“See you tomorrow morning?” I asked.
Eliza hesitated a moment. Then—“Yeah,” she said quietly. “See you tomorrow.”
And somehow, the day didn’t feel quite so overwhelming anymore.
I drove through Honeybrook Hollow with my coffee in the cup holder and Eliza still very much on my mind.
The streets were already lively—dog walkers wrapped in coats, older kids with backpacks heading toward school buses, and the glow of Sycamore Street storefronts casting a golden light on the sidewalk frost. Even in winter, this town moved at the easy rhythm of people who felt they belonged. I’d always appreciated that about it—how it made space for you without expecting anything in return.
But today, something felt different.
Seeing Eliza this morning had knocked something loose. I kept replaying the way her voice softened when she looked at me. The way she noticed that I was tired. How she didn’t shut me down when I asked her out again. The flicker of something warm in her eyes—hesitant, sure, but real.
I wanted more of that.
I wanted her.
But wanting her and deserving her felt like two different things.
I turned into the alley behind the Pennywhistle Pantry and parked in my usual spot. The back entrance was already propped open with a bucket of potatoes—my grandma’s trick to keep deliveries moving quickly—and the comforting smells of butter, bacon, and coffee met me before I even stepped inside.
“Morning, Nate,” my grandmother said from behind the griddle. “You’re late.”
I checked the clock. “It’s 7:48. Nancy was in charge of opening today. So technically, I’m early.”
“Ahh, fair enough,” she called back.
“Morning, Nancy,” I called, giving a wave to one of my grandma’s oldest friends as she whisked past the pantry shelves. Nancy had worked at the Pennywhistle for over twenty years, and there wasn’t a trick or secret in this kitchen she didn’t know. She could flip a pancake with her eyes closed and settle a lunchrush squabble with just a look. Seeing her here always made the place feel more like home.
