I’m walking a little too close. I know it. My hand keeps brushing the air near her arm, like some stupid part of me thinks proximity alone might steady whatever the hell is happening between us.
The lake mirrors faint moonlight, ripples whispering in the darkness; somewhere a frog croaks, and the air tastes damp and electric.
“You okay?” she asks once we reach her steps, her voice low, the kind of soft people use when they’re afraid to break something delicate.
“I will be,” I say truthfully. “Eventually.”
She nods, as if she understands exactly what that means. And she probably does.
We stop under her porch light. She fiddles with the edge of her jacket sleeve—an anxious tell I’ve only noticed the past few days.
She looks up at me, eyes catching the light just enough to shine.
“You want to come in? For… tea?”
She hesitates, then adds with a small smile, “Coffee this late would make us both a wreck.”
Tea.
Not an excuse.
Not a deflection.
An invitation.
My stomach drops in a warm, alarming way.
“I—” I try not to sound too eager.
“Yes. Tea would be… good.”
“Good,” she says, barely above a whisper, and pushes open the door.
She walks in first. I follow, trying not to look like someone walking into the most dangerous decision he’s made in years.
Her place smells like cedar, mint shampoo, and something sweet—vanilla, maybe. Lamps are low, warm, cozy. There’s a guitar propped near the couch, a mess of notebooks on the coffee table. Shedisregards her glasses on top of one, like she couldn’t wait to get them off.
She heads to the tiny kitchen nook.
“Chamomile or peppermint?”
“Dealer’s choice,” I say, leaning against the doorway, trying not to stare at how her dress fits across her hips, at the glimpse of ink on her leg she didn’t bother hiding tonight.
She chooses chamomile.
The kettle hums faintly as she fills it, her hands trembling just slightly—barely noticeable unless you’re watching as closely as I am.
“You sure you’re alright after dinner?” she asks quietly.
I exhale, long and slow.
“My family….”
“They’re… honestly kind,” she says, matter-of-fact.
“That’s one interpretation,” I mutter, and she snorts. “They like you,” I add.
“They like you,” I correct. “A bit too much, if I’m honest.”
