She laughs, shaking her head. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.”
We both chuckle, tension easing as we move on to talk about her project. She’s brilliant — sharp, creative, organised. Everything she’s ever done for me has been faultless, but hearing her ideas out loud makes me realise just how much I’ve been holding her back.
She deserves more.
When dinner’s ready, we join my dad at the table. He insists on sitting next to Matilda, which suits me fine — it means I get to sit opposite her. Not that I spend the whole meal staring at her or anything. Definitely not.
My dad is beaming, utterly taken with her. They share stories, tease me mercilessly, and by dessert, they have their own inside jokes. I should be annoyed, but I’m not.
I’m… happy.
Watching my dad smile like that, seeing the colour in his cheeks — it’s the first time in a long time I’ve felt something close to peace.
When Matilda tells him about Thomas — the idiot from the office who flirted with her — they both laugh so hard I think my dad might actually choke.
“I just think it’s unprofessional to ask someone out at work,” I mutter.
My dad shoots me a look that saysyou’re full of shit,but lets it go.
The evening blurs pleasantly, filled with warmth and soft laughter. Dad pours wine, Matilda’s cheeks flush pink, and I sit there trying to memorise the sound of her laugh.
She talks about her family, her love of books, her obsession with Baby Yoda — and I can’t stop watching her. She’s funny and clever and so alive it’s infectious. Every word she says makes something inside me unravel.
When I finally call an Uber to drive her home, she sighs happily in the passenger seat.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. It’s been a really nice evening. Thank you.”
She turns toward me, smiling, and I swear my heart stumbles.
“You were quiet tonight,” she says softly.
“I was listening,” I admit.
“God, was I talking too much?” Her blush deepens.
“Not at all. It was nice — hearing you talk about your life. Your family.”
She smiles, eyes soft. “Your dad told me a lot about you growing up, you know. It’s funny — we’ve worked together for years, but we’ve never really talked like this before.”
I glance at her — then back at the road — and something settles heavy and certain in my chest.
No, we haven’t. But I think about you more than I should.
And for the first time in a long time, the silence between us doesn’t feel empty.
It feels like possibility.
The Uber pulls up outside her flat, headlights washing the street in pale gold. Matilda reaches for the door handle but hesitates, glancing back at me.
Our eyes meet — just for a second — but it’s enough to knock the air from my lungs. A soft smile curls her lips, and my gaze falls helplessly to her mouth. Her lips part slightly, like she’sabout to say something… or maybe she’s thinking the same thing I am.
The space between us tightens.
I lean forward before I can stop myself, and she mirrors the movement — slow, tentative, magnetic.
For a breath, nothing else exists. Not the city outside, not the mess of the last week — just her, inches away, smelling faintly of wine and something sweet.
