I laugh, surprised by how easy it comes out. The sound feels too loud in my own ears, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. If anything, he looks… pleased.
“That’s very on brand,” I say.
“For someone you barely know?”
“You’re predictable in specific ways.”
“Careful,” he replies. “I might start testing that theory.”
The wine tastes rich and warm, settling easily. Conversation drifts without effort—small things at first. The kind of things you don’t realize matter until you hear them out loud.
“What do you do when you’re not being responsible?” he asks.
“I read,” I say. “Too much. And I collect things that don’t match.”
“I noticed,” he says.
That catches me. “You noticed?”
“The way you notice things,” he says. “Nothing feels accidental. It just doesn’t try to match.”
“I like things that don’t belong together,” I admit.
He considers that. “I like things that know where they go.”
Marisol returns with the food, setting the plates down with quiet precision. Derek watches my reaction when I take the first bite.
“Well?” he asks.
“It’s perfect,” I say.
He looks satisfied—not smug. Just quietly pleased he got it right.
As we eat, he asks more questions. Not rapid-fire. Thoughtful. He remembers my answers, circles back to them later, like he’s building a picture instead of checking boxes.
At some point, I realize I’ve stopped paying attention to the room.
Stopped noticing who might be watching.
All my focus is on him. On the way he leans in slightly when I speak. On the way he waits.
When the check comes, it feels too soon.
Outside, the night has cooled. The city hums lower now, like it’s winding down.
Derek slips his jacket over my shoulders, fingers brushing my arm just briefly before he lets go.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I know,” he replies. “I want to.”
And for the first time that evening, I don’t question what that means.
He puts the car in park but doesn’t turn it off.
The engine hums beneath us, a low vibration that feels suddenly intrusive. The street is quiet. Too quiet.
I turn toward him.
