"A Reuben? You really do like the complicated stuff, don't you? Thousand Island dressing is basically just a cry for help."
"It’s called flavor, Landry. You should try it sometime when you’re not busy eating plain chicken and brown rice in the locker room."
By the time the cook handed over the brown paper bags, the handles already beginning to go translucent with grease, the weight of the game seemed to have lifted off Michael’s shoulders. We headed back out, the steam from the bags warming our hands as we resumed the trek toward my apartment.
"You were talking about missing out," I said, my voice dropping back into that serious, midnight register as we walked. I took a bite of my sandwich, the salt and fat hitting my system like a lightning bolt. "I get it. More than you think. I’ve spent the last fifteen years being a mom first, a bartender second, and a human being... somewhere in the distant third. Sometimes I look at people traveling or just sleeping until noon and I feel like I’m watching a movie in a language I never got to learn."
Michael slowed his pace, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk. "Is it worth it? The trade-off?"
"Every second," I said, and I meant it. "Gabe’s security, his stability… that’s the only thing that keeps me upright. Risking that for a whim or a distraction? It's not in the cards. Not for a long time."
I looked over at him, the way he was carefully navigating a massive bite of brisket while trying to maintain his dignity. He seemed thoughtful. As if he were actually listening to me.
"But I will say this: since I met you, I’ve started to think that maybe the entire male population isn't made up of assholes. It’s a refreshing change of pace."
Michael swallowed, a small, hopeful spark lighting up his eyes. "So there’s a light at the end of the tunnel?"
"Absolutely," I teased, bumping my shoulder against his arm. "In about five or six years, once Gabe is through college and I’ve finally paid off my car, I might actually consider putting myself back on the market. Maybe I'll even go on a date that doesn't involve a school fundraiser."
Michael stopped dead in his tracks, nearly tripping over a crack in the sidewalk. "Five or sixyears? Kayla, you’re talking about half a decade. I’ll be forty-one. I’ll basically be an ancient artifact by then."
I laughed, the sound echoing off the quiet houses. "Well, you said you were a high-mileage rental. I’m just giving you time to get your oil changed."
"That’s brutal," he said, catching up to me, his grin wide and infectious. "I’m trying to be a supportive friend here, but I have to tell you—for the sake of your mental health and your soul—you cannot wait five years to have a glass of wine with a man who isn't trying to sell you a raffle ticket."
"Oh, so now you’re a life coach?" I countered, waving a French fry at him. "You’re working really hard for someone who’s just a friend, Landry. It’s almost suspicious."
He held up his free hand in a mock gesture of innocence, though the guilt was written all over his face. "I promised I’d try, and I’m trying. I respect the boundary, really. I’m just saying, as a disinterested third party, your timeline is terrifying."
"It’s a safe timeline," I said, though my heart was doing a traitorous little flutter. I was kidding myself about the friend part, and I knew it. Every time he laughed, every time he leaned in a little too close, I had to remind myself to keep my mind out of the gutter. He was easy to talk to, easy to be around, and far too easy to imagine in my life in a way that didn't involve a bar counter between us.
"Safe is boring," Michael said, his voice softening. "But I’ll wait for the oil change. I’m a patient guy. You can’t survive in the league without learning how to play the long game."
We kept walking, the silence between us no longer heavy, but filled with the comfortable heat of a secret we were both trying to keep. The city felt smaller tonight, less like a battlefield and more like a backdrop. By the time we reached the corner of my block, the sandwiches were gone, and the five-year plan felt like a very long time indeed.
The streetlamp above us hummed with a low-frequency buzz, casting a spotlight on the cracked pavement as we slowed to a stop. The air between us was thick, not just with the South Texas humidity, but with the sudden, sharp realization that we were standing much closer than "just friends" usually do.
"You've got a little..." Michael started, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly rumble that always seemed to vibrate right through my chest.
He didn't hand me a napkin, or point. Instead, he reached out, his hand cupping the side of my jaw with a gentleness that made my breath hitch in my throat. His thumb moved in a slow, deliberate sweep across the corner of my lower lip, wiping away a stray smudge of sauce.
The world around us simply stopped. The distant sounds of the highway, the rustle of the palms, the flickering lights calling us into whatever twenty-four-hour establishment all seemed to fade into a blur of grey. My heart wasn't just beating; it was thundering, an urgent demand against my ribs. I looked up at him, my eyes locking onto his, and found a heat there that made the night air feel like ice water.
His thumb didn't pull away, the pad of his skin pressing against the sensitive curve of my mouth. His gaze dropped to my lips, pupils blown wide, and for a split second, the five-year plan felt like a lie I’d told a stranger. My breathing went shallow, my lips parting just enough to let out a shaky exhale that brushed against his skin. The electricity was a live wire between us, a magnetic pull so strong I could feel my heels wanting to lift off the ground.
We were kidding ourselves. That was becoming more and more obvious.
But then the spell snapped. Michael’s thumb twitched, and his gaze was suddenly ripped away from mine, his brow furrowing as he looked at the building directly behind me.
"Wait," he said, the intensity in his eyes replaced by a sudden, jarring confusion. He looked at the street sign, then back at the building, at the familiar dark-wood entrance we had just spent forty-five minutes walking away from. "Why are we back at the bar?”
I bit my lip, the ghost of his touch still tingling there.
"We walked in a literal three-mile circle," he said, gesturing to the dark windows of the bar. "I thought... I thought we were going to your place. I thought I was being the chivalrous guy walking you home."
I shifted my bag on my shoulder, a small, sheepish smile playing on my face. "My apartment is actually the second floor of the bar. The entrance is in the alley."
He stared at me, his mouth hanging open as the realization hit him. "You let me walk you for an hour... to a place we were already standing at? I felt like a hero, Kayla. I was narrating my own protector movie in my head."
