He shrugs, then folds the menu, lines it up with the edge of the table like he’s squaring off a faceoff. “I just don’t want to screw this up.”
I want to make a joke about how it’s impossible, given my track record of embarrassing myself in every high-stakes situation since puberty, but I don’t.
Instead, I just reach across the table and grab his hand.
He doesn’t flinch. He just holds on.
It’s a small table, intimate. The candles flicker, their light catching on the water droplets trailing down the windows.
There’s a buzz from the other diners, but it fades out, replaced by the sound of Darius’s breath, the warmth of his hand, the look in his eyes when he’s not sure anyone else is watching.
The food comes, and it’s beautiful, but I barely taste it. The wine is better than any I’ve had in my life, but I don’t care.
I’m hyperaware of every inch of him, the way he sits, the way he cuts his steak, the way he chews on the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking hard about something and isn’t ready to say it.
We talk, but not about hockey.
Not about trauma or therapy or even our families, who have, in the last week, accepted our existence with the kind of enthusiasm that should be illegal.
We talk about nothing, and everything, movies, the worst teachers we ever had, how neither of us can figure out how to keep a houseplant alive.
There’s a moment, halfway through the meal, when I look up and he’s just staring at me, fork suspended in midair, a smile breaking through the deadpan.
“What?” I say, self-conscious.
He shrugs, “You look happy.”
I stare at him, and the words are so simple it almost breaks me.
“I am,” I say, and it’s true, and I’m terrified, and I don’t want to ever let go of this feeling.
After dessert (panna cotta, which I only ordered because it sounded like a dare), we linger at the table, both of us unwilling to break the spell. The bill comes in a leather envelope.
Darius reaches for it, but I grab his wrist.
“My treat,” I say.
He grins. “You sure?”
“I won the Cup. I can handle a fancy dinner.”
He lets me, but when the waiter brings the receipt, he slides his card in alongside mine, splitting it down the middle.
I want to make a joke about how he’s pathologically generous, but instead I just watch him sign, the smooth motion of his hand, the way he dots the i in his name with the barest flick of the wrist.
Outside, the rain is heavier. The city glows under the weight of it, each streetlamp wreathed in a halo.
We walk under the awning, both of us hesitating at the edge, not quite ready to leave the warmth and the light.
I turn to him.
There’s something I’ve been wanting to say all night, but I’m scared. Not because I think he’ll leave, but because it feels like everything I ever wanted is right here, and saying it out loud might make it vanish.
He waits, patient, eyes searching my face.
“Stay,” I say, voice rough. “Not for a season. Not until it’s convenient. Stay in my life. All of it. Forever.”
He breathes, slow and even, then steps closer. His hand comes up, knuckles brushing my jaw, and he says, “I’m not going anywhere, Ash.”
