The words land heavier than I intended.
He turns away, pacing once across the room. “I don’t like feeling like I’m failing at expectations I didn’t know I’d signed up for.”
I soften immediately. “I’m not keeping score.”
“That’s what it feels like,” he admits.
I step closer. “I’m not asking for perfection, Colton. I want to feel like I matter in the small moments too.”
That does it. He stops pacing. Slowly turns back to face me.
“You do matter,” he says.
“I know that. I’m identifying how last night made me feel.”
Silence stretches between us.
“You’re very calm about this,” he says finally.
“I worked hard to be,” I admit. “I don’t want to store resentment for later.”
His expression shifts. “I default to work when things feel complicated,” he says quietly.
“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want to disappear because of it.”
He steps closer, the space between us shrinking. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve handled it better.”
Relief loosens the tightness in my chest. “Thank you.”
He reaches for me then, resting his forehead against mine. “Come over tonight?”
I nod. “Okay.”
After work, I ride with him in his fancy car. It’s quiet, but not uncomfortable. By the end of the day, both of us are typically tired and don’t feel the need to fill the silence. I like it.
When we step into his apartment, the lights are low, the city stretched out beyond the windows in glittering lines. It feels familiar now in a way it didn’t at first. Less like a place I’m visiting and more like somewhere I’m allowed to be.
He shrugs off his jacket and sets it over the back of a chair. “Do you want water? Wine?”
“Water’s good,” I say.
He nods and heads to the kitchen. I slip my shoes off and curl up on the couch, pulling my legs beneath me. The cushions dip slightly when he sits beside me, handing me a glass before leaning back.
The show he turns on is something easy and mindless. Background noise. Neither of us pays much attention to it.
After a minute, he shifts, pulling me gently into his side. I go willingly, tucking myself against him, my head resting on hisshoulder. His arm comes around me instinctively, firm and grounding.
I feel safe, and the realization sends a quiet ripple of fear through me.
“I don’t want you thinking I didn’t care about dinner,” he says softly after a while.
“I know,” I reply. “And I don’t want you thinking I was mad.”
He huffs a faint laugh. “We’re bad at this.”
“Maybe.” I smile. “But we’re trying.”
His thumb traces slow circles against my arm. “I’m not used to people telling me what they need without making it a whole thing.”
