The answer keeps coming back to her.
To the way she looked at me last night, soft and hopeful and scared. To the way she didn’t demand labels, didn’t push for definitions, just asked if I was going to show up.
I showed up.
I keep showing up.
And when I finally tune back into my surroundings, I realize I’m not driving home.
My truck is parked outside Glamboozled. Muscle memory. My body knows where it wants to be even when my brain’s still arguing about whether that’s smart.
Apparently my body won the argument.
I don’t remember deciding to come here. Don’t remember making the turn off the main road, navigating the familiar streets, pulling into the small lot behind the salon. I was on autopilot, and autopilot brought me here.
To her.
The lights are on inside. Through the window, I can see her moving between stations, probably doing whatever closing routine she does every night. She hasn’t noticed me yet—just going about her evening, unaware that I’m sitting in my truck like a stalker, wrestling with the realization that my body knows things my mind hasn’t caught up to.
I could leave. Could drive home, pretend this didn’t happen. Preserve the distance I’ve always maintained, the control I’ve always prioritized.
My hand reaches for the door handle instead.
I’m halfway across the parking lot before I consciously decide to move. The door chimes when I push it open, and Gisele looks up from the register with an expression of surprise that quickly shifts into warmth.
“You’re back.”
“Apparently.”
“Did you need something?”
I stop a few feet from her, trying to find the words for something I don’t fully understand.
“I didn’t plan to come here,” I say. “I was driving home and I just... ended up here.”
“Is that a problem?”
“I don’t know.” I run my hand through my hair. “I don’t know what any of this is. I don’t have a plan. I don’t have a strategy. I just know that when I finished practice, the only place I wanted to be was here. With you. Not the salon, not the exercises, not the structure. You.” The confession scrapes my throat raw on the way out.
Her expression softens. “Bennett—”
“That’s not normal for me.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “I always have a plan. I always know the next move. But with you, I just... I keep showing up. I keep making choices that don’t fit any strategy I’ve ever built. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
She sets down the papers she was holding. Closes the distance between us. Takes my face in her hands.
“You don’t have to do anything with it,” she says quietly. “You just have to let it happen.”
“That’s terrifying.”
“I know.” She smiles. “But you’re here anyway.”
I am here anyway. Despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, despite every instinct telling me to protect myself by staying controlled.
When she kisses me, I stop fighting it.
When she takes my hand and leads me toward the back room, I follow.
And when we end up tangled together on her couch again, I don’t try to compartmentalize it afterward. Don’t construct narratives that make it smaller than it is.
