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It’s not uncomfortable, and it amazes me enough that I notice, because, and as a surprise to no one, I’m not usually great with silences.

It gives me too much time to wonder whether the other person is bored or tired or waiting for me to say something interesting, which inevitably makes me say something significantly less interesting than whatever might have happened if I’d left the silence alone.

With Flora, it feels different.

She walks beside me with her hands tucked into her coat pockets, close enough that our sleeves occasionally touch. She doesn’t seem to be waiting for me to entertain her.

She’s just here.

We pass a restaurant with fogged windows and tiny lamps glowing in every table, and I notice, as we keep walking and talking, that there’s water gathered in the uneven places in the pavement, reflecting pieces of neon signs and headlights and apartment windows above us.

I notice all of it.

A few months ago—hell, even a few weeks ago—I probably wouldn’t have noticed any of it.

Or maybe I would have noticed and immediately moved on to the next thing in my head.

Tonight, I notice because there isn’t anywhere else I particularly want my attention to be.

Flora’s shoulder brushes mine when we step around a puddle, and neither of us moves away afterward. Her hand comes out of her pocket and hangs loosely beside her as she walks, only a few inches from mine.

I could wait. There’s a version of me that probably would—should. Wait to see whether she reaches first. Wait for another brush of our fingers that I can pretend happened accidentally. Wait until I’m certain enough that taking her hand doesn’t feel like asking for something.

Instead, I let my fingers touch hers.

Flora glances down, then her eyes are on mine.

For one terrible, dramatic second, I become acutely aware that I have somehow made hand holding feel more terrifying than asking this woman if I could kiss her after eye-fucking her all night.

Then Flora turns her hand over, and I take that as a sign to slide my fingers between hers.

She closes them around mine and…

Oh.

This is⁠—

I don’t know why this feels like such a big deal.

We’ve kissed. A lot.

I’ve had my hands on her waist and in her hair. I know what she tastes like. I know the way she moves closer when I touch the side of her neck. None of that should make holding her hand feel more intimate somehow, and yet it does.

The city goes quieter as we move farther from the restaurant. There are fewer people on this block, mostly dark storefronts beneath apartments, their upper windows glowing against the night. Fallen leaves have gathered in wet clumps along the curb. Somewhere nearby, someone has a wood-burning fireplace going, the faint smoky smell mixing with the damp air.

We walk and talk until Flora finally points out that we’ve managed to get farther away from both of our cars.

“I thought you knew where we were going,” I say.

She gives me a sideways look. “Why would you think that?”

“You seemed confident.”

“I was following you.”

I stop. Flora takes another step before our joined hands pull her gently back toward me.

We look at each other, neither of us saying anything, until Flora laughs.