Priya says firmly, "Ask him. Not in a 'we need to talk' way. Just... ask."
I nod slowly. Pick up my cold latte and take a sip anyway, the liquid lukewarm and slightly bitter. "Okay."
***
We've been at the café for twenty minutes and Tom hasn't looked up from his laptop once. It's 6:30 on Wednesday evening, our usual prep session before Thursday's Board presentation. My oat milk latte on the left, Tom's black coffee on the right. The presentation deck is loaded on both screens.
We've been working in silence. Tom adjusted the lighting on three images, approved my new transition slide, suggested tightening the conclusion. He's been polite. Focused. Professional.
Distant.
I close my laptop. The click is quiet but deliberate.
Tom looks up, eyebrows raised in question.
"Can I ask you something?" I say.
He nods. "Sure."
"You've felt different this week. Is something wrong?"
Tom's expression shifts—careful, guarded. He sets down his coffee cup, fingers lingering on the handle for a second before letting go. "I've just been busy. A lot on my mind with the project."
I hold his gaze. "You're here, but you're not... here."
Tom looks away, jaw tightening. "I don't know what you want me to say."
I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice even. "I'm not asking for answers. I need honesty. If you're scared, say that. If you need space, say that. But don't tell me I'm imagining something I can feel.”
Tom is quiet.
The café noise fills the space. Someone is laughing near the counter, the milk steamer hisses. I wait. Don't fill the silence. Don't offer him an out.
Finally, Tom says quietly, "This—us—is good."
His hands are flat on the table, fingers spread wide. He's looking at them, not at me.
I wait. Then gently, carefully, I reach across and touch the back of his hand. "And?"
Tom looks at our hands. Then up at me. "Putting down roots. Connecting with people. It's just never worked out for me. Every time I've wanted to stay somewhere, I've ended up having to leave.” He pauses, swallows. "Or the people I got attached to... left."
My chest tightens. I remember what he told me before, about moving constantly as a kid, about Wren being the only constant, about never having a place that felt like home so he stopped looking for one.
"You think if you pull back now, it'll hurt less later," I say quietly.
Tom looks at me, surprised. "Maybe."
I nod. Don't let go of his hand.
"I can't promise we won't get hurt. But what I can promise is that I'll try. I'll try to use our safe word when I need it. I'll try not to spiral into control mode when I'm scared."
Tom's mouth quirks slightly. Almost a smile.
"I'll try to tell you when I'm freaking out instead of just pulling back," he says.
I smile. "I may be very good at planning, but I'm not a mind reader, Tom. You have to tell me how you're doing. What you're struggling with. We made a promise to be partners."
I reach across the table with my other hand and cup his face gently, palm against his jaw. Tom closes his eyes. he leans into my palm, the tension in his shoulders releasing slightly.
