“You cried on my shirt.”
“A physiological response.”
“To happiness.”
She studied an innocent parked car. “Possibly.”
“This stays private,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Yes, but I have errands.”
“You ran six miles. We are celebrating.”
“We celebrated. There was a sticker and a hug.”
The air changed aroundhug.
“Dinner tonight,” I said. “Possibly pancakes.”
“That is not dinner.”
“It can follow dinner if dinner is insufficient.”
Amy hesitated. This was not training or challenge content. A real invitation.
“Seven,” she said. “Restaurant. Public location. Clear menu information.”
“Not a date.”
“Correct.”
The not-date stood between us while she picked up her bag.
She walked toward the bus stop. I watched her go. Then I checked my phone. Three messages from Rose.
Rose: How is the run?
Rose: Did she stop when told?
Rose: Did you?
I typed:
Six miles. Safe. Strong. No injuries.
Rose replied immediately.
And you?
Beneath the bus shelter, Amy studied the gold star sticker in her palm.
Dani: Complicated.
Dinner became pancakes because I had reserved the restaurant for the following Saturday. Amy discovered the error while the hostess offered a ninety-minute wait.
