"You're going easy on me," I say after he passes up a clear opportunity to take my bishop.
"I'm playing the long game." He moves his knight into position. "Sometimes the obvious attack isn't the best strategy."
We play in comfortable silence, and I find myself relaxing into it—the simple pleasure of moving pieces, of trying to think ahead, of being challenged without feeling threatened. Around us, other games continue. Someone wins with a triumphant laugh. Someone else curses good-naturedly at a blunder.
Seamus wins, of course. It takes him maybe fifteen minutes to maneuver my king into a position where there's no escape. But the victory is gentle—he doesn't gloat, doesn't make me feel stupid for missing the trap he set up six moves ago.
"Good game," I say, and I mean it. "You're way better than I remember being."
"You were good too. You saw that combination with the rooks—not many people catch that." He's resetting the pieces, and I realize he's assuming we'll play again. "Want a rematch?"
We play three more games, and I lose all of them, but each time I last a little longer. By the fourth game, I actually manage to put him in check once before he recovers and systematically dismantles my defense. But I don't mind losing. There's something satisfying about the competition, about trying to think the way he thinks, about the small moments when I surprise him with a move he didn't expect.
"You're a good teacher," I tell him as we pack up the pieces. "You didn't make me feel dumb once."
"Why would I do that?" He looks genuinely confused. "You're learning. That's the whole point."
We walk back to our picnic blanket, and the afternoon has shifted into early evening—golden light slanting through the trees, the air cooling just enough to be pleasant. Seamus packs up the basket while I shake out the blanket, and there's a domesticity to it that makes my chest ache. This is what it could be like, I think. If we could figure out how to be honest with each other. If he could trust me and I could trust him back.
"Thank you for today," I say as we walk toward the park exit. "I needed this. Getting out of the penthouse, just... being normal for a while."
"We can do it more often." He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. "If you want."
"I'd like that."
We're almost to the street when he stops, turns to face me. There's something in his expression—vulnerable and hopeful and scared all at once. "Rosanna, I—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leans down and kisses me. It's soft, careful, nothing like the performative kisses we've shared for cameras. This is real—questioning and tentative and full of all the things neither of us knows how to say.
I kiss him back, and for a moment everything else falls away. The argument yesterday, the unsigned paperwork, the advocacy group—none of it matters as much as this moment, this connection, this feeling that maybe we can still find our way to something real.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine. "I'm trying," he says quietly. "I know I'm not good at this, but I'm trying."
"I know," I whisper back. And I do. I can feel him trying, can see the effort it takes for him to reach for me instead of retreating behind his walls.
We walk home hand in hand, and the evening feels full of possibility.
***
Later that night, I'm in my studio finishing some detail work on Mira's garden when my phone buzzes with a city alert. I almost ignore it—they're usually routine announcements about street closures or utility work—but something makes me check.
O'MalleyMart Inc. has put in a new bid for the storefront.
It's three times their original bidding price.
I read it multiple times, and each time the words rearrange themselves into something worse.
My hands are shaking as I click through to the city planning portal. The documents are dense with legal language and architectural renderings, but the essential facts are clear:
O'MalleyMart upped their bid for the property. They've filed for expedited approval. Demolition to follow.
The beautiful afternoon evaporates.
The memory of the kiss shifts, no longer uncomplicated, now sitting uneasily beside this filing notice.
I pull up my texts and find Tessa's number. My fingers feel clumsy as I type:
Did ERS know O'MalleyMart was going to do this?
