My hands tighten behind my back. “You did?”
“Yes.”
“You understand the invitation?”
“I do now. There was a minute where I thought you wanted to discuss bakery logistics somewhere with grav-ball machines.”
“That was a risk.”
“A charming risk.”
“I am not charming.”
“Oh, you are very charming. Accidentally, which is deeply unfair.”
I do not know how to answer.
She steps closer. Not too close. Enough that the warmth of her reaches me before touch does. “Yes, Kauss.”
My thoughts stop.
“Yes?”
“Yes, I would like to go on a date with you.”
The bakery changes.
The ovens are off, the sign is dark, the street outside is wet and ugly, and the display case hums with repaired machinery beside us. Nothing physical changes. Yet the world becomes suddenly too sharp and too fragile. Every breath carries more meaning than air should be allowed to hold.
“You are certain?” I ask.
Her smile gentles. “Very certain.”
“I am not experienced with human dating.”
“I gathered.”
“I may do it incorrectly.”
“You probably will.”
“That does not reassure me.”
“It should. I already know, and I’m still saying yes.”
She reaches for my hand, then pauses, asking without words. I turn my palm upward. Her fingers settle against mine, small and warm, and the contact moves through me with more force than the stun burst at the zoo.
“I want to spend time with you,” she says. “Not because of debt, repairs, danger, or operational necessity. Because I like you.”
My throat closes.
Like is not love. It should be smaller. Safer. Less destructive.
It is not.
“I like you,” I say, and the words sound inadequate enough to be insulting.
Her smile turns radiant anyway. “Good.”
