“I didn’t do anything.”
“You brought food. You listened without judging.” I saved my work and closed my laptop. “You let me be good at my job without feeling like it threatened you somehow.”
Something shifted in his expression. “Is that how I used to make you feel? Threatened by your success?”
“Not threatened, exactly. But like my career was an inconvenience. Something that took time and attention away from you.”
“Fuck.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I really was a selfish bastard.”
“You were. But I didn’t realise that until I left and looked back at the compromises I made to be with you.” I shrugged. “Anyway, you’re not now.”
“How can you be sure?”
I looked at him, sitting in my office at midnight, shadows under his eyes from staying up with me, his jacket tossed over the back of the chair. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, patient, unhurried. Surrounded by the mess of my work crisis, and looking genuinely interested in my answer.
“Because the old you would have called and complained that I was working late again. The new you showed up with dinner and kept me company while I worked.”
He was quiet for a moment. “I’m still learning how to be supportive instead of possessive.”
“You’re doing better than you think.”
We packed up the leftover food in comfortable silence. As he walked me to my car, I found myself reluctant for the evening to end.
“Thank you,” I said. “For dinner, for the company.” I turned to face him. “I had a good time tonight. Even though I was working.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It felt... normal. Like something a couple would do.”
Hope flickered in his eyes. “We could be a couple. If you wanted.”
“I’m not ready for that yet,” I said softly. “But tonight felt like a step in that direction.”
“I’ll take it.”
He didn’t try to kiss me goodnight, didn’t push for more than I was offering. Just squeezed my hand briefly and waited until I was safely in my car.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I saw the single headlight of his bike fall in behind me. He followed me all the way home, keeping a respectful distance, and when I parked outside my apartment, he waited at the curb. I waved from my door once I had it open, and only then did he rev the engine and pull away into the night.
?
I woke slowly the next morning, warm under the covers, morning light filtering through the curtains. For a long moment I just lay there, not thinking, just feeling the softness of the sheets against my skin and the quiet of the apartment around me.
Then I thought about the night before. And something shifted in my chest.
I stared at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar resistance to rise up—the voice that saidbe careful, don’t trust this, you’ve been hurt before. I braced for it, the way I’d braced for it every time I’d started to feel something real for Dutch again.
It didn’t come.
I lay there thinking about how natural it had felt to have him there. How he’d brought food without being asked, listened without trying to fix, stayed without expecting anything in return. How he’d followed me home on his bike and waited until I was safely inside before leaving.
He’s changed.
But has he changed enough? Can I trust it?
Yes, Dutch had become someone I could trust. Someone who added to my life instead of consuming it.
I knew what I wanted now. It wasn’t a decision I had to make. It was a truth I finally let myself see.
