She took care of herself—but not like it was a weapon.
More like armor she forgot she was wearing.
“I’m… selective,” she said.
“That sounds diplomatic.”
She took a slow sip of wine, leaning back against the stone edge of one of the old markers.
“In New York, older men loved me,” she said. “Like… really older. Weekend date guys. Fancy dinners. They’d treat me like an accessory.”
Her mouth twisted.
“I hated it. Felt like I was something they wore to show off.”
I frowned. “Idiots.”
She smiled faintly.
“And guys my age?” she continued. “None of them wanted anything real. No settling down. No building something. Just… floating.”
“So nothing serious?”
“One relationship,” she said. “Ended over a year ago.”
She looked out over the water.
“Since Boston, it’s just been work. Career. Trying to build a life that’s actually mine.”
There was something lonely in the way she said it.
Something that tugged at my chest harder than it should’ve.
“So,” I said, stepping closer, lowering my voice, “I’m the lucky one, huh?”
She laughed softly.
Then looked up at me like I’d just asked something dangerous.
“Ethan… when I saw you that night?”
“Yeah?”
“You were the only man in that bar.”
My heart actually stuttered.
She stepped closer.
Close enough that I felt the warmth of her through my shirt.
Her fingers came up—gentle, slow—and brushed a piece of hair back from my forehead.
Then tucked it behind my ear.
The touch barely there.
But it hit like lightning.
