He’s watching me now, really watching me, like he’s trying to reconcile this version of me with the one who sits on his lap and gives him ridiculous nicknames.
“You’re different here,” he says quietly.
“Different good or different bad?”
He considers that.
“Different… calm.”
I smile softly. “I am calm.”
Around him, I am also restless. Curious. Hopeful. Terrified.
He shifts his weight slightly, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s working up to something.
“Christina,” he says.
My name sounds careful in his mouth.
“Yes?”
He swallows.
His gaze flicks to the ground, then back to me.
“Would you… would you have dinner with me?”
The question hangs between us, fragile and enormous all at once.
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
I’ve imagined this moment so many times that now it’s here, it feels unreal. Like something I built in my head and accidentally stepped into.
I force myself not to rush. Not to scare him with the magnitude of how much I want to say yes.
“Sure. I’d like that,” I say instead, letting just enough warmth into my voice to tell him this matters.
Relief moves through him visibly, his shoulders lowering slightly, the tension easing.
I unlock my phone and hold it out to him.
“Put your number in.”
He hesitates only briefly before taking it, his fingers careful as he enters the digits. He sends himself a message, then hands it back to me.
Our fingers brush.
This time, he doesn’t pull away immediately.
He lifts his hand, hesitates, then gently tucks a lilac strand of hair behind my ear.
The gesture is tentative. Almost uncertain.
But it’s deliberate.
“I’ll text you,” he says.
I nod. “I’ll be waiting.”