Then I pulled it out.
He glanced at it.
“What is that?”
“A coping mechanism,” I said lightly, opening it.
Inside were a few small gummies. Nothing wild, just enough to soften the edges of a day.
He studied them with mild curiosity.
“You partake?” I said.
“In this?”
“Yes.”
“On occasion.”
“An occasion like taking care of a grown-ass woman after a barista shift?” I asked with a shrug.
He considered that for a beat. Then held out his hand.
I blinked. “You’re serious.”
He merely nodded.
“You don’t strike me as a gummy guy.”
“I am adaptable.”
I laughed softly and handed him one.
“Half,” I warned.
“Who’s bossy now?” he asked with a smirk. And holy shit, I loved that smirk.
We chewed in companionable silence. I turned on a movie, something funny and familiar, low stakes and warm. It was the kind you don’t have to follow closely.
At first, nothing changed. Then, gradually, the tension in my shoulders loosened. The stone under my ribs softened. The edges of the day blurred slightly.
I sank further into the couch.
Raphael shifted closer at some point. Not dramatically, just enough that our arms brushed. The contact sent a slow warmth through me that had nothing to do with the gummy.
“You are warmer than usual,” he murmured.
I laughed quietly, the sound softer than it had been earlier.
The movie played on, dialogue drifting in and out of focus as my thoughts slowed.
My head tipped toward him almost without permission. He didn’t move away. He didn’t stiffen. He adjusted. His arm slid behind me, not pulling, just supporting. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek.
“This is dangerous,” I murmured.
“How so?”
“I’m supposed to be maintaining clear emotional boundaries.”
