"What happened at the debrief?" he asks.
I tell him. The whole mess. Richard tore apart the pedestrian section, the data was missing, and I spent three hours rebuilding work Leo should have handled. Tom listens without interrupting. He nods in the right places, asks one clarifying question about timeline.
When I finish, he says, "That's a lot."
"Yeah."
Another silence. Heavier this time.
I pick at the edge of my napkin, tearing off a small corner and rolling it between my thumb and forefinger. Tom watches my hands, then looks up at my face.
"We've barely seen each other this week," he says quietly.
"I know."
"One coffee. Ten minutes. You had to run to a site visit."
"I know," I say again.
The napkin corner is a tight little ball now. I set it on the table, smooth the napkin flat again.
"I guess I just didn't think it would feel like this," I say, and the words come out before I can stop them.
Tom goes very still. He doesn't ask me to clarify. He just waits.
I exhale slowly, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent.
"A few days ago we were—" I stop, glance around The Donut like someone might be listening. Lower my voice. "A few days ago we were on that terrace. And now we're here, and it's Wednesday, and I feel like I haven't really talked to you in four days."
"You have talked to me."
"Texts don't count."
"Why not?"
"Because they're—" I gesture vaguely. "Maintenance. Quick check-ins. 'How's your day,' 'Miss you,' logistical updates. That's not the same as actually being together."
Tom's jaw shifts. He looks down at his hands, then back up at me.
"We're both building careers, Sam. It's not always going to be easy to carve out time."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
The question has a slight edge. Not quite defensive, but close.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Tom hesitates. Picks his words carefully. "I mean, I think maybe you had this idea that once we admitted we wanted this, everything would just fall into place. And it doesn't work like that."
The truth stings.
I look away, focusing on the espresso machine behind the counter. Margit is pulling a shot for someone, her movements practiced and efficient.
"I know it doesn't just happen," I say quietly. "I'm not naive."
"I didn't say you were."
