It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t an accusation either. Just an observation, like she was noting the weather.
I didn’t bother with denial. “Yeah.”
“Why do you look like you’re still on the call?” The question punctured the bubble around me.
I stared down at my cup. Steam curled up and vanished. “It’s complicated.”
She hummed. Not disbelieving. Not prying. “Most things worth wanting are.”
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny, but because it sounded like something you’d needle someone for being too smooth about — and I didn’t have the energy to do either. I just let it land.
I was halfway through deciding whether to defend Dominic, myself, or the general concept of commitment when she leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, and asked,
“Do you ever let people take care of you?”
The question was so direct it knocked the air out of me. My mouth opened, closed. Nothing useful came out.
“I take care of myself,” I said automatically. It was a reflex, not a thought. A slogan I’d been repeating for years without checking if it still meant anything.
Her eyes narrowed, just slightly. Not judgment — precision. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Heat crept up my neck, my body betraying me before my brain could assemble a better answer.
“I don’t have time,” I said finally.
Which was the safest way I knew how to sayI don’t know how to be held without feeling like I’m failing at something.
She nodded like she’d expected that one too. “You know, I used to say that.”
“Did you?” I couldn’t help the skepticism. It came out sharper than intended.
She laughed softly. “Yes, me. Believe it or not, I’m not just a floating accent with a wardrobe budget.”
I smiled despite myself. It was the smallest thing, but it made her eyes brighten like she’d just won something.
“What did you say instead?” I asked, hating how curious I sounded.
She turned her cup slowly between her hands. “I said I was busy. I said I was fine. I said I was independent. I said I was putting in my time in the trenches.” She looked up. “Mostly, I said whatever would keep people from looking too closely.”
My pulse did something odd at that—an uncomfortable recognition. “That doesn’t sound like you,” I said before I could stop myself.
Her lips curved. “You don’t actually know what I sound like.”
I should have retreated. I should have made a joke and shoved the moment back into the safe category of banter. I could feel my brain reaching for the exit.
But something in me—some reckless little part that had already kissed her on a street corner—didn’t want to run.
So I let the silence sit and, wildly, she let it sit with me, like it didn’t scare her.
Outside, a bus hissed to a stop. Someone laughed too loudly on the sidewalk. A dog barked once, sharp and impatient.
Inside, my phone buzzed.
A calendar reminder.
Of course it was.
My body tensed like I’d been slapped. She watched it happen.
