“If you live there, I’ll love every inch of it.”
She studied me for a second, and a smile touched her lips.
The elevator smelled like wet umbrellas and a hint of somebody’s lunch.
Definitely not pine.
“Not very holiday-ish,” I said, wrinkling my nose.
“You get used to it,” she said. “Like jazz on hold and sirens at two a.m.”
“Romantic.”
“City poetry,” she said, and gave me a quick sideways look, and I couldn’t help grinning.
The elevator doors opened to a hallway that looked like a nice hotel.
She led me down it with quick, sure steps, and I followed like a man who’d been trying not to want to be here for months and had failed beautifully.
Inside her apartment, Seattle wrapped around us again—the rain-slicked view, the whisper of traffic, lights she’d strung around the windows that made the glass look like it was wearing jewelry. A wreath hung a little crooked on the inside of the door, and a snow globe sat on the coffee table like a dare.
Reckless River etched on the base.
She clocked me clocking it. “Don’t get weird.”
“I won’t,” I said, already weird.
We stood in the living room, and for a heartbeat, I wanted to kiss her, sure. I also wanted to sit on her couch, hear about her day, and find out which drawer the spoons live in.
I set the food on the counter like it was an offering to whatever gods oversee idiots who try.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Always,” she said, then slanted me a look. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“Believe it,” I said. “I wanted to make sure you remembered Reckless River.” I tapped the snow globe. “And me.”
Her expression moved through a handful of things—surprise, joy, the flicker of panic that’s just caution wearing a mask, and something else I didn’t deserve but wanted anyway.
“I’m not likely to forget either.”
“Good,” I said, because articulate speech had left the building. I cleared my throat. “It’s not to see where you live.”
She laughed, the sound loosening my spine. “There’s not much to see. Couch. Desk. Window that leaks on days it rains sideways.”
“Desk,” I repeated, eyeing the little work nook arranged like a tiny command center—the laptop, the pens in a mug, the paper stacked neatly. “This is where you turn chaos into learning?”
“Among other heroics,” she said, chin up.
I let myself stand there and take the place in. Not to judge it. It wasn’t big. It was tidy. It smelled like the candle on the counter. The heater hummed a city-song you don’t get in our old buildings by the river. If Reckless River was wood and wool and the sound of snow, this was glass and hum and the soft percussion of rain. It didn’t make me want to run. It made me want to say something dumb like I could be here.
“Want coffee?” she asked, moving to the machine with the confidence of someone who has absolutely given a lecture on proper bean storage at a party.
“I’d love some. It was a long drive.” I smiled and shrugged. “But worth it.”
She shook her head and busied herself with the ritual, and I let myself watch without turning it into a thing. This was the part I’d wanted to see: her in her habitat, sleeves pushed to her elbows, the city reflected in the window behind her like a silent chorus. Not fantasy. Fact.
When she handed me a mug, our fingers touched, and that familiar current ran along all the places I pretend I don’t have nerves. Her smile faltered into something real and unguarded. “I’m glad you’re here.”
