“Why not?”
“Because the second I say it out loud, it becomes a decision. And I’m not choosing it.” I pause. “But deleting the email feels wrong. Like shutting off a light I didn’t realize was on.”
She studies me in a way that makes breathing feel complicated.
“It’s silly,” I rush to add. “I’m not going to do it. But…it’s nice knowing it’s there.”
“You could still choose it.”
“Maybe.” I meet her eyes. “But once I tell Liam, he’ll say it’s incredible and then tell me all the reasons I can’t do it. And he’ll be right. If I’m going to skate pro, MIT isn’t compatible.”
She tilts her head. “And if you told Erin?”
“Erin would make a spreadsheet,” I say. “Logical.Structured. Perfectly argued. And I’d nod along because she’s always right.” A breath. “And then I’d say no anyway.”
She gives me a small smile. “So you’re hiding it because you don’t want them to help you say no.”
“Exactly.”
We fall into an easy rhythm after that: her tasting sauce off a spoon, me pretending not to stare when she licks her lower lip. The scent of thyme and olive oil fills the cabin.
When we finally sit down at the table, the fire’s throwing steady heat and the room smells like home. She twirls pasta on her fork, takes a bite, closes her eyes. “Wow.”
“Not bad for cabin rations.”
“You could open a restaurant.”
“Sure. The Pucking Pasta Bar.”
She laughs, low and real. “You’d have a line out the door.”
I don’t tell her the truth—that I could sit here forever, listening to her laugh, and forget that the world outside exists.
The plates are empty, and the fire’s burned down to steady orange light. She leans back in her chair, eyes half lidded, fingers tracing the rim of her wineglass. “That was a good first date.”
“High praise from my favorite engineer.”
She laughs. “You say that like you know more than one.”
“I don’t need a sample size to know you’re my favorite.”
Her smile flickers, shy and sure all at once. I reach across the table and brush a crumb from her lower lip with my thumb. She freezes. I don’t move.
The air stretches, thins.
“Careful,” she whispers. “That looks like flirting.”
“It is,” I say.
I stand, circle behind her chair, and let my hands rest on her shoulders. “You’re tense,” I murmur, even though I’m the one shaking.
“Kieran.” My name slips out on a breath—half warning, half invitation.
My thumbs trace the curve of her neck, slow, careful. “There are a lot of ways we can make each other feel good without rushing anything,” I say against her ear.
She’s quiet. One beat. Two. Then her chair slides back, and she stands in a single fluid motion, turning to face me.
“I don’t know if you can help,” she says, tone deceptively thoughtful.
