We approach the table together. I scan the options—chocolate glazed, old-fashioned, jelly-filled. But my eyes lock on the one covered in rainbow sprinkles. Perfect.
Julian reaches for a Boston cream, and I reach for a rainbow sprinkles.
"That's what sugar addiction tastes like."
"Says the Pepsi drinker."
He laughs, low and warm. The sound settles into my chest, makes a home there.
We drift to a small table near the corner, away from the others. I watch him eat, the careful way he wipes cream from his lip with a napkin. Everything he does feels intentional, measured.
"How are you feeling?" he asks. "After all that?"
I consider the question. Tara's voice still echoes in my head—trauma doesn't discriminate, breathing is your anchor, this is a safe space.
"Lighter," I admit. "Which is weird because we didn't even talk about what happened. Just... theory."
"Sometimes understanding the mechanics helps." He taps his temple. "Knowing why your body reacts a certain way. Takes some of the fear out of it."
"You sound like you've done this before."
"Therapy? Yeah. Years ago." He doesn't elaborate, and I don't push.
I finish my donut and lick sugar from my fingers. I catch him watching.
"What?"
"Your donut's totally you," he says. "Bright. Fun. A little chaotic."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Chaotic?"
"In the best way." His smile softens. "It suits you."
I gesture at his empty napkin, the last smear of cream. "And yours is predictable."
"Reliable,” he says.
“Perhaps a little bland,” I tease.
"Comforting. Classic. Sophisticated. Creamy… smooth… delicious." He winks at me, and I almost fall off my chair.
"Old man."
"Troublemaker."
We're flirting. We both know it.
Guilt twists in my stomach, but I can't seem to stop smiling.
Tara approaches, hands clasped. "Thanks for coming, you two. See you next week?"
Julian glances at me. I nod.
"Yeah," he says. "We'll be here."
We.
The word wraps around me like a promise I shouldn't be making.
