“You think that’s all we are?” he asked finally.
My breath caught, just barely. Not enough to be obvious. Enough to matter.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It’s just … the language we reach for first. The one that doesn’t ask anything of us.”
His mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Because it keeps things uncomplicated.”
“Because it keeps things from tipping,” I corrected softly.
He leaned back in his chair, studying the ceiling for a second like he was giving the thought the respect it deserved. “We were best friends,” he said. “For a long time.”
“I know.”
“And then we weren’t,” he added.
“That part was abrupt,” I said dryly.
His eyes flicked back to mine, something wry and tender passing through them at once. “What do you think happens when two people who knew each other that well run into each other again?”
I shrugged, but my pulse had started to race. “They catch up. Share stories. Pretend the years in between didn’t leave marks.”
“And if pretending doesn’t quite work?”
The question landed softly—and stayed.
“I think,” I said slowly, “they start to notice things they didn’t before.”
“Like what?” he asked, though his gaze had already dropped—to my mouth, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder—before returning to my eyes.
I swallowed. “Like how different everything feels.”
He nodded, once. “Different isn’t always bad.”
“No,” I agreed. “Sometimes it’s just … more.”
The word hung between us, loaded and unclaimed.
For a moment, the space between us felt electric. Not rushed. Not heavy. Just aware. As if the air itself had sharpened, tuned to the frequency of two people realizing they were standing closer to a line than they’d intended.
My mind drifted—uninvited, insistent—to the way his hand had felt at my back the night before. Warm. Steady. Certain in a way that had made my body respond. I wondered what those hands would feel like if they weren’t just holding memory. If they weren’t careful. If they were allowed.
Wyatt seemed to sense the shift. His fingers tightened slightly around his mug, knuckles whitening just enough to notice.
“You always did overthink things,” he said lightly.
I smiled. “And you always noticed.”
“Hard not to,” he replied. “You wear your thoughts right here.” He gestured vaguely toward my face. “Right before you pretend you don’t.”
I laughed softly, grateful for the release. “So, what are we calling this, then?”
His gaze held mine, steady and unflinching. “Right now?”
“Yes.”
He leaned in just a fraction, lowering his voice. “We’re two people having coffee. Seeing what still fits.”
“And if it fits too well?” I asked.
