I pointed toward a table along the side wall.
"Okay," he said with a firm nod. We sat, and he picked up a menu, then peeked over the top of it at me. "Important question — are you in the mood for something warm, something light... or the 'I'll decide when it's in front of me' approach?"
I gave a small shrug. He smiled, softer than before. "Okay. We'll keep it flexible."
He tilted his head a little. "Any allergies or things you really don't like?"
I wrote:Kiwis
"Got it," he said immediately, nodding. "No kiwi anywhere near this table."
When the server arrived, he glanced at me once more for a silent check-in, then said, "Could we do a few small plates to share? Maybe a little mix of things." He smiled politely. "That way we can both try a bit of everything."
After the server left, he looked at me with a small, reassuring smile.
"I am building a data set for future lunches." He added, hand to chest, "Who am I if not an aggressively optimistic man planning for a sequel?"
I just smiled. He rested his forearms lightly on the table. Then seemed to catch himself staring for half a second too long and leaned back.
"I feel like this is the calm-after-chaos part of the day," he said. "We saved a small human, did paperwork, avoided being arrested for excessive heroism. Successful morning. "We're clearly elite partners. So... would it be terribly unprofessional if I submitted an application to also be your friend?"
He smiled, waiting. I pulled out my notebook and wrote:Sure. First tell me more about yourself.
He read it, and something in his expression warmed.
"Okay, so my parents are... very gentle people," he said, a fond smile settling at his mouth. "Steady and kind."
His fingers tapped lightly against the table.
"We didn't have much growing up. Small place, secondhand everything, a lot of fixing instead of replacing. But there was always room at the table. Always someone else's kid staying for dinner. My mom would pretend she'd 'made too much' when really she'd just stretched everything a little thinner."
The plates arrived. He slid the one closest to my elbow a little nearer and turned another so it was easier to reach. He poured water into my glass first then his own.
"My mom shows love in quiet ways. She'll notice if you're tired before you do. My dad fixes things without announcing it — shelves, leaky taps, bad moods. You'd wake up and whatever was wrong yesterday just... wasn't anymore."
He looked at me then, expression open, unguarded.
"They made the world feel survivable. Even when money was tight or things were uncertain, home was warm. Safe. Like you could exhale all the way."
He nudged a plate gently toward me. "Try this one, it's delicious."
I took a small bite.
"I think that's where the rock thing started," he continued, a little shy now. "We couldn't afford big trips, so we'd go on walks.My mom would pick up stones and tell stories about where they might've come from. My dad would pretend to be very impressed by my 'rare discoveries,' even when it was just a very average pebble."
He laughed under his breath.
"Rocks always felt like old friends," he said. "Quiet. Steady. Beautiful."
His gaze lifted to mine again, gentler now. "They remind me of you, actually," he added softly.
Then he reached for the water jug again. "More?"
******
The man could really talk and it was oddly charming. Bramwell was midway through an overly dramatic retelling of a goose that had once "made prolonged eye contact and then chose violence" when he stopped abruptly.
"I'm doing it again, aren't I? Full documentary narration mode." He exhaled through a smile. "I talk a lot. Like...if rambling were a crime, I'd be serving multiple life sentences."
