We didn’t talk about that night again. Not the couch, not the breakfast, not the way her hand had rested on my arm in the parking lot. It was like we both knew if we named it too soon, it might break. Instead, we let time do the work. It started with small things outside the office. A message late on a Tuesday night asking if I’d eaten.
A photo she sent of a failed attempt at cooking something new. A joke about how I still owed her for fixing her sink too well because now she had no excuse to call me over. One Friday evening, after a long sprint wrapped early, she asked if I wanted to grab food. Just food, she said. Casual, no storm this time. We went to a small place near the river.
Nothing fancy, just warm lights, wooden tables, and the sound of people talking softly around us. We sat across from each other. Not side by side like co-workers, but not far either. Somewhere in between. You feel different? She said after a while, stirring her drink. Different how? I asked. Calmer, she said.
like you’re not always bracing for something bad to happen. I smiled a little. Maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t care about things. She looked at me then, really looked and nodded like she understood more than I’d said. That night when we walked back to our cars, the air was cool and damp. Portland quiet.
She stopped before opening her door. I’m glad we’re doing this, she said. Doing what? I asked, even though I knew, she smiled, not rushing, not hiding, just being honest. I drove home thinking about that word, honest. Over the next few weeks, our lives slowly braided together. Grocery trips turned into shared meals. Fixing things at her place became an excuse to stay longer.
