He changes it up. Croissants. Muffins. Something lemony I didn’t expect to crave.
No labels. No pressure.
Just consistency and us, together, figuring it out slowly.
When he asks me out for a movie night, it’s understated.
“I was thinking something low-key,” he says. “At your place. If that works for you.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Then we do something else.”
It does.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch at first. Pretending we’re watching.
At some point, his arm comes along the back of the cushions. Space offered, not taken.
I lean in.
He doesn’t mistake familiarity for permission.
This is me allowing it.
His breath changes.
We don’t rush it. We don’t talk it to death.
When he kisses me, it’s slow. Controlled. Like he’s giving me every chance to stop it.
I don’t.
Heat builds. Familiar. Wanted.
When things start to tip from sweet into something sharper, he stills.
“Okay,” he says quietly. A question.
“Yes.”
Clear. Steady.
We end up tangled together, foreheads touching, breathing a little uneven.
“This,” I say, “was a good idea.”
He smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
A few weeks later, he asks me to dinner.
A formal one.
“There’s an event,” he says. “You don’t have to come, but I’d like for you to be my date.”
“Chuck will be there.”
“Yes.”
