“It should be.”
We reached the edge of campus just as a sleek black car pulled up to the curb, the timing so precise it almost felt intentional. The driver stepped out immediately, already moving toward us with practiced ease.
Micah’s entire body stilled for half a second. “Oh, we’re being picked up,” she sang out, elated, practically skipping towards the driver.
I closed my eyes briefly. “Micah.”
Her hand slid around my arm, not gripping—anchoring—as her gaze flicked toward the car, then back to me, something curious threading through her expression. “This is either very Lo… or very intentional.”
“Probably both,” I sighed, already stepping forward before she could spiral into a full analysis.
“Mm,” she hummed, lips curving slightly. “I like him already.”
The driver opened the door with a polite nod, and I returned it automatically as I slid inside, Micah following smoothly behind me. The interior was warm, quiet, insulated from the city in a way that felt familiar rather than overwhelming.
Micah leaned in slightly, her voice low, thoughtful now. “Okay, this is nice. Not over-the-top. Just…considerate.”
The restaurant sat tuckeddown a quiet street just off the main rush, warm light spilling out through wide windows, the interior glowing with a kind of understated elegance that didn’t try too hard and didn’t need to.
The door opened before we reached it, the host stepping aside with a smooth, practiced smile that made the shift from rain to warmth feel effortless.
And then I saw her.
Lo stood near the back of the room, already turned toward us like she’d felt us coming, like distance was something she simply refused to respect. Her face lit—instant, unguarded—and it hit me straight in the chest.
Everything else blurred for a second. The noise softened. The movement slowed. Because she looked the same. Familiar. Safe.
“Bebê,” she breathed, already moving.
I didn’t think. I went.
We met halfway, her arms around me before I could say anything, before I could decide how much of this I was allowed to feel. She smelled the same—expensive florals cut with citrus, bright and impossible to ignore—and something in me settled on contact, like a piece clicking back into place.
“You cut your hair,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to look at me. “It suits you. You look—” Her eyes softened, something quieter slipping through the performance. “Happy. Or at least convincing.”
I laughed, breath catching somewhere between nerves and relief. “I’ve been practicing.”
“Oh,” she breathed, pulling me tighter. “Eu te amo, minha menina linda.”
I exhaled into her shoulder, tension I hadn’t named loosening anyway. “I love you, too” I breathed against her, taking in the sweet scent that comforted me instantly. “I’ve missed you.”
“I know,” she huffed dramatically. “Obviously. I’m delightful.”
She turned then, one hand still looped casually around my wrist, keeping me close as she shifted her body slightly—opening the space beside her without making it a production.
“Bea,” she breathed. “This is Ezra.”
He stepped forward, not rushing it, not performing it.
Up close, he was… calm. That was the first thing I noticed. Not passive. Not detached. Just steady in a way that didn’t need to prove itself. He wore it easily—dark suit, no tie, the kind of simplicity that only worked when nothing about you needed to be explained.
His eyes met mine, direct but not intrusive. “Hi,” he said, voice low, even. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly aware of myself in a way I hadn’t been two seconds earlier. “I’m hoping it was all good.”
The corner of his mouth moved—barely there, but real.
Lo made a soft, satisfied sound, like something had aligned exactly the way she wanted it to. Her fingers squeezed once around my wrist before she let go.