Dog-Jason’s tail thumps once, slow, judgmental, like he’s already disappointed in me.
“Don’t judge me,” I mutter, heat crawling up my neck. “It sounded more confident in my head.”
The words wobble in the air, and I cringe at the sound of my own voice—soft, shaky, hopeful in a way that feels too exposed.
I pace, my slippers tapping softly along the tiles, a steady little metronome for my spiraling nerves. My heart does thisfluttery, ridiculous thing, like it hasn’t felt excitement in months and now it’s overdosing on it.
I am not a very romantic person now.
I was never much of a romantic.
Not before the accident. Not even before the world narrowed and darkened and taught me how to live inside my own body like it was a fragile thing that might betray me again.
Back then, love was something other people leaned into. I was practical. Focused. Work came first—hard work. Healing came second. Survival took whatever was left. I learned how to ration my energy, how to be careful with hope, how to settle.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped considering that I might want more.
But standing here now, with warmth in my chest and something tentative reaching outward instead of curling in on itself, I realize this isn’t me going back to who I was.
This is me, for the first time, wondering what it might be like to give it a chance. Romance didn’t fit into that. It didn’t have room. And now here I am… texting a man. Shaking like I’m about to freefall off a cliff.
Feeling attraction again feels… foreign. Too alive.
But when Human-Jason stands close, or guides my hands, or says something unexpectedly soft in that low, steady voice, it wakes something inside me.
Something I thought had burned to ash and been buried under the weight of everything I’ve had to carry.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The message swooshes away into the universe. Then I remember the “just dinner” part. Great! Oh well, it’s done now.
No response yet.
One minute.
Three.
Seven.
Even Jason is pacing nervously at my heels.
“I shouldn’t have sent it,” I groan, dropping my forehead onto Dog-Jason’s giant shoulder. His fur is warm, grounding. “He probably thinks I’m weird. Or forward. Or?—”
My phone pings.
I flinch like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. The robotic text-to-speech voice reads:
“Ye”
I blink. “Ye?”
Dog-Jason snorts like he thinks that answer is lackluster too.
“It’s… yes?” I say slowly. “Right? That’s yes?”
He huffs.
“Well, it’s not no.”
My stomach flips—uneven and messy and hopeful enough to make me want to sit down.
