She meets my gaze. “Then don’t build things you don’t know how to hold.”
The words land gently. Firmly. I breathe them in like advice I didn’t know I needed.
We talk about Gwen. About her dry menace and impossible loyalty. About Julian, whom she describes as “chaos in expensive shoes,” which feels accurate. About Zane and how Tess thinks ice hockey is overrated. I promise her I won’t tell Zane.
We don’t talk about Rex.
We don’t talk about the deal.
Not because it’s forgotten, but because it’s been set down, deliberately, for tonight.
Time passes in a way that feels unfamiliar. Unmeasured. Unleveraged.
At some point, she looks at me and says, “You’re different when you’re not trying to be impressive.”
I swallow. “Is that… good?”
She tilts her head. “It’s honest.”
I take that as a win I didn’t earn.
When we leave the bar, the city feels different. Softer. Quieter. Like it’s exhaling with us.
The streetlights hum overhead, their glow reflected in the damp pavement. The air smells faintly of rain and warm asphalt, the kind of smell that settles low in your chest and makes everything feel closer, more real. Somewhere down the block, a bus sighs to a stop. A couple laughs as they pass, wrapped up in their own night, their own story.
We walk side by side. Not touching. The space between us is deliberate. Charged. Alive. It’s not empty, it’s full of intention, of restraint, of all the things we’re not doing because we’re choosing not to.
I don’t reach for her. I won’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because wanting isn’t the point anymore. The point is that she decides. That she always decides.
Her hands are tucked into the pockets of her jacket. Mine hang loose at my sides, fingers curling and uncurling like they’re practicing patience. Every few steps, I’m aware of her presence beside me, the warmth of her body, the quiet steadiness of her stride, the way she matches my pace without thinking.
We don’t talk much. We don’t need to. The silence isn’t awkward.
At the corner where our paths diverge, we stop.
The moment stretches.
“Well,” she says finally, her voice lighter than it was earlier but still careful. Still honest. “This was… nice.”
Nice feels fragile, like something you handle gently so it doesn’t crack. I nod. “Yeah,” I say. “It really was.”
She rocks back on her heels slightly, then forward again. I recognize the movement, the way someone stands when they’re deciding whether to stay or go. Whether to step closer or hold their ground.
Another pause. Longer this time.
I brace myself without meaning to. I know this feeling.
The quiet right before a door closes. The moment when someone thanks you for your time and walks away clean, leaving you to sit with what might have been.
If she does that, I’ll accept it. I have to.
Instead, she steps closer. Not into me. Not pressing against me. Just close enough that the space between us shrinks from distance to awareness. Close enough that I feel the warmth radiating off her, the undeniable truth of her presence.
She’s choosing to be here.
“I’m still angry,” she says quietly.
The honesty lands without sharpness. It doesn’t accuse. It just exists.
