The dress is simple. Black silk that skims her body instead of clinging, showing her shoulders, the elegant line of her collarbone. Delicate sandals catch the evening light. Her hair falls loose, still damp at the ends, and she’s watching me with those dark eyes that have always seen too much.
My heart stops.
She’s beautiful—she’s always been beautiful—but this is different. This is her choosing to be seen with me. After everything. After the bet, after the Delta, after every reason she had to walk away.
“Hey,” she says, watching me stare.
I can’t speak for a second. My throat’s too tight. Finally, “Hey.”
I step closer without thinking, stopping just short of touching her. She smells of citrus shampoo and sun-warmed skin, with the Delta still caught in her hair.
“That’s…” I start, then stop, recalibrate. “I’ve never seen you in a dress.”
Her mouth curves, just a little. “I know.”
I gesture vaguely, like I need permission to ask. “How did you?—”
“My mother’s,” she says quietly. “Buni kept it.”
Something in my chest cracks open. “You’re wearing your mother’s dress,” I manage. “And you’re here. With me.”
“Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know.” I reach for her fingers, threading them through mine. “But I’m fucking grateful you chose here.”
She squeezes once. “Me too.”
I offer her my other hand. She takes it, stepping into my space, and for a heartbeat, we just stand there in the doorway.
“Ready?” I ask.
“Ready.”
As we start walking, my thumb finds its place at the base of her fingers, tracing that same slow circle—muscle memory from all those walks across campus, from holding on when everything else was falling apart. The streets are hushed, evening settling soft over stone.
“You’re very quiet,” she says.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“About how you wouldn’t grab Thai food with me because you didn’t want to be seen together.” I glance down at her. “And now you’re here. In a dress. Holding my hand where anyone can see.”
Her eyes shine. “I know.”
We walk the rest of the way in comfortable silence, our steps falling into the old rhythm.
The restaurant sits just off the square, all stone and lamplight, tables spilling onto the pavement. Candles flicker in low glass holders. The air smells of grilled meat, herbs, and wine.
I pull out her chair before she reaches it.
She notices. Her smile is small, but it stays.
We sit close. Our knees touch under the table and neither of us bothers to shift. My hand finds hers almost immediately, fingers threading together.
Wine arrives. Bread. Oil and salt.
She tears off a piece and hands it to me without thinking. The ease of it hits harder than anything else, no bracing, no performance. We just are.
