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“That is not very responsible advice.”

“I never claimed to be a responsible man.”

A tiny smile tugs at her lips, and despite the subject, I find myself smiling too.

“I’m starting to understand why we get along.”

“We don’t get along.”

“Right.” I pick up my chopsticks. “We just have compatible anger-management issues.”

Her mouth twitches. “I don’t have anger-management issues.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“You punched a woman.”

“Okay, fair.”

I take another bite and mumble, “I would’ve done worse.”

“I bet you would have, Stephen.”

I grin around my food.

Fuck.

I’m enjoying this.

The easy teasing. The way she gives as good as she gets. The little smiles she tries to hide and the way she looks at me like she’s finally letting herself relax.

I could get used to this.

To her.

And that might be the most dangerous thought I’ve had all night.

The conversation drifts from skating to music, from ridiculous family stories to arguments about which of us would survive longer in prison. She insists she would and I don’t doubt it. Not for a minute.

She keeps asking questions while we eat and I ask some of my own.

Getting to know this woman’s brain is fascinating. I think she’s the most fascinating thing in the world to me.

I learn that she’s basically a walking encyclopedia, that winter is her favorite season and that she has more adorable little habits than she’d ever willingly admit. I also learn that she likes things a certain way. That she notices everything. That beneath all that sharp wit and ice-cold composure is a woman who remembers the smallest details and cares far more than she lets on.

And her family?

She loves them.

She never says it outright, but I see it in the way her eyes light up whenever she talks about them. The way her voice softens when she mentions her mother. The way she smiles when she tells me about her sisters, even while complaining about their collective lack of sanity.

I could hear her talk for hours and not get tired of it.

But somewhere halfway through dinner, I’m reminded that people leave and the best things in life have a way of slipping through my fingers.

And when someone starts feeling like your person, that’s when shit gets complicated. Because suddenly, losing your person isn’t just about missing their presence. It’s about missing the way they make ordinary moments feel extraordinary. The way they make a mansion feel warmer just by being in it.

It also dawns on me that I found that person.