"I will absolutely eat that for breakfast," Emmy promised.
She walked him to the door. The hallway was quiet, the building settling into the night. Grant stepped out, then turned back to look at her. The playful edge from the cherry stem moment was gone, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made him look, for half a second, his age.
"Good luck in San Francisco," she said softly. "Don't get hit."
"That's the plan." Grant gave her a crooked smile. "Get some rest, will you? Stop working for the night."
"I will," she lied.
"Goodnight, Em."
"Goodnight, Grant."
She closed the door. She heard his heavy footsteps retreat down the hall, then the ding of the elevator.
A door creaked open down the hall. Callie, in sweats, Liam on her hip, mouthed oh my god with the slow, exaggerated emphasis of someone who'd been listening through the wall.
Emmy gave her a look and closed her door.
Only then did she let out the breath she'd been holding. She walked back to the living room, sank onto the sofa where he'd just been sitting—still warm—and looked at the coaster on the table.
Two cherry stems. One loose and lopsided. One perfect and tight.
He could have gone home. His apartment was fifteen minutes from the restaurant. Her place was twenty in the wrong direction. He'd driven across town with a pizza box and an attitude, settled into her couch like it had a groove shaped exactly like him, and known exactly what she wanted on it without asking.
She filed this information somewhere it definitely didn't belong.
It wasnotgoing to be a problem.
Monday morning broke with an aggressive sunshine that felt like a personal accusation
Emmy sat at a high-top table in the coffee shop on Tremont, her laptop open. A silk scarf—midnight blue with small white stars—held her hair back from her face, the ends trailing over her shoulder. Grant was in San Francisco. He had texted her once—a photo of the fog over the Golden Gate Bridge with no caption.
She hadn't replied. She was too busy staring at the door, buzzed with caffeine and a need to fix something. Anything.
"I am so sorry I'm late," a breathless voice announced. "The T wasn't moving, so I got out and ran, but then I saw a dog wearing a raincoat and I had to stop to tell him he was a good boy, and—hi. I'm a disaster."
Emmy looked up. Harper stood there, windblown and flushed, wearing a violently bright orange sweater that looked like it had been knitted by a colorblind nun. She looked chaotic. She looked un-curated.
She looked wonderful.
"You're not a disaster," Emmy said, feeling a genuine smile crack through her professional veneer. "You prioritized a dog in a raincoat. That speaks to your character. Sit. I ordered you a vanilla latte with oat milk."
Harper slumped into the chair, pressing the cup to her forehead like a cold compress. "Oat milk? You're an angel."
"I have a gift," Emmy said. "Also, you mentioned being lactose intolerant while you were crying in the bathroom on Friday."
Harper groaned, dropping her forehead onto the table. "Oh god. I forgot I told you that. I think I also told you about my recurring dream where I'm dating a lizard?"
"You did," Emmy confirmed, laughing. "We're going to unpack that later. But first—the Crypto Bro. Did you block him?"
"Blocked. Deleted. Exorcised." Harper popped her head up, grinning. "I almost texted him on Saturday night when I was lonely, but then I remembered you said if I did, you'd know. You have that 'all-seeing eye' vibe."
"I would have known," Emmy warned playfully. "And I would have been very disappointed."
"See? That's what I need. Accountability." Harper leaned in, her eyes sparkling. "Okay, so what's the plan? I'm ready. Mold me. Fix me. Make me the kind of woman who doesn't date men who own decorative swords."
Emmy laughed again. It felt good. It felt light. After a weekend of sleeping badly and replaying Friday night in fragments she refused to hold up to the light, Harper's chaotic, open-book energy was exactly what she needed.
