We practice the touches—his hand on my lower back, my head on his shoulder, the way couples lean into each other when they’re listening. Each contact gets more natural.
By dessert, I’ve stopped flinching. Stopped tracking his hands. Started enjoying the warmth of his body beside mine, eventhough he seems to run much colder than any guy I’ve ever dated.
“You’re cold,” I say, when my arm brushes his for the tenth time. “Like, really cold. Are you okay?”
“Poor circulation.” The answer comes fast. No hesitation. “I’ve always run cold.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No.” His hand covers mine again. “It’s just how I am.”
I file it away with the other things—the not eating, the late nights, the historical references that don’t fit. The list is getting longer. Eventually, I’ll have to confront him.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I’m sitting in a candlelit restaurant with a man who bought me an emerald dress and touches me like I matter. Tonight, I’m practicing falling in love.
Yeah, practicing. That’s all. Practicing.
We leave the restaurant and head home around eleven.
At my door, we stand in the hallway, facing each other. Close, but not too close. The distance he keeps calculating.
“Thank you for tonight,” I say. “For the dress. For... well, all of it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Julian?”
“Yes?”
“Are you going to kiss me goodnight?”
The question surprises us both. I hadn’t planned to ask it—it just came out, honest and wanting and completely against the rules of whatever game we’re playing.
His expression flickers. Want and restraint and something that looks like fear.
“Not tonight,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because if I kiss you now, I won’t stop.” His voice is rough. “And we haven’t talked about what this is. What we’re becoming.”
“What are we becoming?”
“I don’t know.” He reaches up, brushes a strand of hair from my face. His fingers are cool against my cheek. “That’s what frightens me.”
“You don’t seem like someone who scares easily.”
“I’m not. Usually.” His thumb traces my jaw. Slow. Deliberate. “But you scare me, Poppy. What I feel when I’m with you scares me.”
“What do you feel?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
Then he steps back.
“Next Thursday,” he says. “The flight leaves at noon. I’ll pick you up at nine.”
