She laughs and sets her purse down on the counter. She looks like she already belongs here, which does something strange to my chest that I decide not to examine too closely.
“Wine?” I ask as I move toward the kitchen.
“Yes.”
“Beer?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“You’re not very good at this,” she says, watching me with obvious amusement.
“I’m excellent at this,” I correct.“I’m offering options.”
She studies me for a second like she’s deciding whether to argue with that logic or accept it.
“Wine,” she says finally.
“Excellent choice.”
“I agree.”
We settle onto the couch, not touching at first. She’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of her shoulder. A feeling that makes the space between us feel smaller than it actually is.
“So,” I say after a moment,“this counts as spontaneous.”
“This counts as dangerous,” she corrects quietly.
“For who?”
“For me.”
That gets my attention immediately.
“Why?”
She looks down at her glass like she’s deciding whether to answer honestly before she lifts her eyes back to mine.
“Because I like you,” she says simply.
The words land harder than I expect them to. It’s not because I didn’t know she liked me, but because hearing her say it out loud changes something about the air between us, and I can’t ignore it.
“I like you too,” I reply.
“I know,” she says softly.
She shifts slightly closer without seeming to realize she’s doing it. Her knee brushes mine in a way that feels deliberate, even if she doesn’t acknowledge it.
“With the risk of making this less romantic,” she says after a moment,“Gwen knows.”
“Knows what?” I ask.
“That we’re dating.”
I blink.
“Already?”
