But she didn't.
And I was too far gone to stop myself now.
"Okay," she whispered, her eyes holding mine like an anchor. "Tonight."
We talked. We drank. We ate.
And somewhere between the second glass of wine and the steak that melted like butter on my tongue, I fell for her.
Not slowly. Not carefully. Not in the safe, measured way I'd told myself I would if I ever let it happen, if I ever let my guard down enough to feel something this consuming.
Deeply. Wholly. Completely.
Like falling off a cliff with no intention of catching myself, no parachute, no safety net, just the certainty of impact and not caring because the fall felt worth it.
I noticed everything. The way candlelight caught copper in her hair and turned it molten, like precious metal I wanted to run my fingers through. The shape of her mouth when she smiled—the way her top lip curved just slightly, the small dimple that appeared on the left side of her face, the flash of white teeth. The way her hands moved when she talked—gesturing, reaching, painting pictures in the air, alive with energy and expression.
The way she shifted in her chair, leaning forward when I said something that interested her, her elbows on the table like she needed to be closer, needed to close the distance between us. Leaning back when she was thinking, her head tilting slightly to the left, eyes narrowing like she was solving a puzzle I'd accidentally presented.
Every detail felt significant. Essential. Like I was memorizing her for a test I didn't know I'd have to take, like I was cataloging proof that this moment had existed in case I needed evidence later that something this good had been real.
It was like the gods had made her just for me.
If only they'd known the sinner they'd gifted her to. If only they'd known I'd waste her light trying to illuminate my own darkness.
We talked about Valentine. About middle school. About the time we'd snuck into the old theater that was already falling apart and watched a terrible horror movie while eating stale popcorn we'd brought from home because we were too broke to buy it there.
We talked about Austin. About her friends. About the first time she'd realized she didn't want to be a counselor anymore but didn't know what else to do, how she'd felt like she wasdisappointing everyone by walking away from something she'd worked so hard for.
We didn't talk about war. Or mothers with Alzheimer's. Or FBI agents who showed up uninvited with old vendettas and new threats.
Just us. Just the parts that were still good, still untouched by everything we'd survived.
By the time dessert came, we were both a little drunk. Not sloppy. Not out of control. Just happy. Loose. Real in a way that felt dangerous and perfect at the same time, like we'd temporarily suspended the laws of consequence.
The manager appeared with a towering chocolate creation—layers of dark cake and mousse and ganache and something that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread instead of in front of two people who'd barely kept their hands to themselves through dinner.
"What's the occasion?" he asked kindly, smiling like he already knew the answer but wanted to hear it, anyway.
I blurted it before I could think, the alcohol making me honest in ways I usually wasn't. "I found my best friend."
Sophie's eyes went wide for half a second, surprise and something deeper flashing across her face, then she laughed—bright and real and unguarded—and added, "I did, too."
The manager's smile widened, knowing and gentle. He didn't believe for a second that's all we were, but he was kind enough not to say it, kind enough to let us have our fiction.
"Congratulations," he said simply, like he understood exactly what we weren't saying, and left us alone.
We each took a bite of the dessert. It was delicious—rich, decadent, the kind of thing you wanted to eat slowly and savor, let melt on your tongue.
But Sophie was staring at me now, and suddenly chocolate didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered except the look in her eyes.
"What?" I asked, my voice rough, catching on something in my throat.
"I'm done," she said.
My stomach dropped, panic flaring hot and immediate. "What does that mean?"
Her voice went husky, low, deliberate in a way that sent heat straight through me, pooling low in my gut. "I want you to take me to bed."
