Falling (strong).
Claustrophobia (moderate).
Agoraphobia (very mild).
Trypophobia (not technically a fear, just visually unpleasant).
I paused again, because of course he rated them. He absolutely looks like someone who would assign intensity levels to his own fears.
You and Me
We’ve been dating for a couple of months.
We met at a coffee shop.
We’re serious about each other. Also—in love.
You think I’m cool and funny.
Do Not Mention!
That I hired you.
That I used to date Rick.
That Rick is gay.
I read the whole thing twice, then let out a low laugh that echoed through the apartment. It wasn’t just the precision that got me. It was what sat underneath it. The need to control every variable. The quiet fear of being humiliated. Of being exposed.
I know something about that fear.
The sheet ended with a precise departure time (9:00 a.m.), a meeting spot (the hall outside our doors), and an estimated drive time (2 hours and 47 minutes, “without traffic or stops”).
Instead of texting him or sliding a note back under his door, I walked across the hall and knocked. Three short raps.
He opened it so fast I wondered if he’d been standing right behind it, waiting.
His hair was damp, curling slightly at the ends like he’d just showered. He was wearing gray sweatpants and a faded blue T-shirt with a cartoon corgi on it that readAsk Me About My Rescue Dog, even though I’m fairly sure he doesn’t actually have one. He was barefoot.
“Oh,” he said, eyes widening. “Hi. Connor. You’re—here.”
I held up the sheet. “Got your briefing.”
“Right. Yes. That.” He swallowed. “Sorry if it’s…too much. I just thought you should have some background. So you’re not walking in completely blind.”
“It’s fine,” I said. “I just wanted to confirm logistics. Your note says we’re leaving at nine.”
“Yes. Nine. Tomorrow. Is that okay? I can be flexible if you need—”
“Nine works,” I cut in before he could spiral any further. “Whose car are we taking?”
“Mine. Or yours. I don’t care.” He shifted back a step, making space for me in the doorway, even though I hadn’t moved. “I can drive. Or you can. Whatever you prefer. I’m good either way.”
“Let’s take my car. I’ll drive,” I said. Better than sitting in the passenger seat with nothing to do but talk.
“Great. Perfect. Thank you.” He nodded a few times too many. “And I’ll pay for gas, obviously. And tolls. And anything else. It’s the least I can do since you’re—” He gestured vaguely, color rising in his cheeks, like the wordspretending to be my boyfriend to make my ex jealous because I’m still not over himwere too embarrassing to say out loud.
“It’s fine,” I said again, because it was. “I’ll see you at nine.”
