20 just us
I get there early.
That alone should've been my first warning.
I don't get anywhere early unless I'm trying to prove something to someone or avoid something entirely, and I'm not sure which category this falls into.
The café is busy in a steady, background way-voices layered over each other, cups clinking, the espresso machine hissing like it's personally offended by existence.
I pick a table by the window because it feels less closed in.
Then I sit.
Then I immediately become aware of the fact that I'm sitting alone, waiting for someone I don't even like.
This was a mistake.
Not the meeting itself-that part makes sense. Public place, controlled setting, something that fits into the whole "people are watching" situation without making it worse.
But the alone part wasn't fully considered.
No Jess.
No Declan.
No one to interrupt, redirect, or turn everything into something louder and easier to hide behind.
Just... him.
I reach for my phone, scroll through nothing in particular, then set it down again. Pick it up. Lock it. Unlock it. The kind of restless movement that makes it obvious I'm thinking too much.
"Planning your exit strategy?"
I look up.
He's standing there like he's been there longer than I realized, like he didn't just walk in and catch me mid-avoidance. His expression is neutral, but there's something slightly amused in it that makes me instantly defensive.
"I was considering it," I say.
"You're early."
"You're late."
"I'm on time."
I tilt my head slightly, studying him for a second. "That feels unlikely."
He pulls the chair out across from me and sits down without hesitation, like this is a normal thing we do.
It isn't.
That's the problem.
There's a moment where neither of us says anything, and it stretches just enough to be noticeable, not long enough to be uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar.
"Did you order already?" he asks.
"I didn't trust myself to make decisions under pressure."
He nods once, like that makes sense to him. "I'll get something."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
There's no argument in it, no edge. Just a simple acknowledgment before he stands again and heads toward the counter.
I watch him for a second without meaning to.
Then I stop. Because that feels like something I shouldn't be doing.
The café noise fills the space again, but it feels different now that I'm not the only one in it. When he comes back, he sets a drink in front of me without making a big deal out of it, like he's done it a hundred times before.
I look down at it, then up at him.
"You guessed," I say.
"I remembered."
That-
catches me off guard more than it should.
I take a sip, more out of habit than trust, and pause when I realize it's exactly what I would've ordered.
"That's... acceptable," I admit.
He sits back slightly, not pushing for more of a reaction, which somehow makes it easier to give one. "I'll take that."
The conversation doesn't rush in after that.
It settles, like neither of us is trying to fill the space too quickly.
"This feels different," I say after a moment, more to acknowledge it than question it.
"It is," he says.
I glance at him, expecting something else to follow, but he leaves it there, like that's enough.
And it is.
I lean back slightly in my chair, letting my hands rest around the cup instead of fidgeting with my phone again.
"You're not as annoying when you're not performing," I say, the words slipping out before I overthink them.
He looks at me for a second, not surprised exactly, just... considering.
"You're worse," he says.
I almost smile.
Not because it's particularly clever, but because it's not sharp in the way our conversations usually are. There's no push behind it, no need to win anything.
For a moment, neither of us tries to turn it into anything else.
"So this is what you're like," I say, quieter now, more observation than challenge.
"Like what?"
"When you're not trying to prove something."
He leans back slightly, one hand resting against the edge of the table. "I'm not trying to prove anything."
"That's new."
"That's situational."
I nod once, accepting that without pushing it further.
It's easier not to.
The conversation shifts without effort after that, like we've both decided-without saying it-that this version of it works better.
"You actually want to be a school nurse," he says after a moment.
It doesn't feel like he's checking. It feels like he's remembering.
I nod. "Yeah."
"Why?"
I think about it for a second, not because I don't know, but because I don't usually explain it.
"Because it's practical," I say. "And because I like knowing I can fix something when it goes wrong, even if it's small."
He nods, like that makes sense to him.
"It's not... dramatic," I add. "But it doesn't need to be."
"Not everything does," he says.
There's something about the way he says it that feels like it applies to more than just that, but I don't push it.
"What about you," I ask. "Still planning everything around hockey?"
"It's not really a plan," he says. "It's just what I'm doing."
"That sounds like a plan."
"It's the only one I've needed."
I study him for a second, trying to figure out if that's confidence or something else.
"Your parents are okay with that?" I ask.
"They trust me."
I nod slowly, glancing down at my drink for a second before looking back up.
"That's nice," I say, quieter this time.
He notices.
Of course he does.
"And yours?" he asks.
"They're normal about it," I say. "Supportive, but not... invested in a specific outcome."
"That's probably easier."
"It is."
I hesitate, then add, "My brother's the opposite. He thinks everything I do is either boring or embarrassing."
"That sounds accurate."
"It's not."
"It probably is."
I shake my head, but there's no real argument behind it.
It doesn't turn into one.
That's the difference.
The conversation doesn't spike and drop like it usually does. It just continues, steady and easy in a way I wasn't expecting and don't entirely trust.
At some point, I realize I'm not thinking about how this looks. I'm not adjusting anything. I'm not measuring what I say against how it might be perceived. I'm just... talking.
And he is too.
I notice it in small things. The way he listens instead of waiting to respond. The way he doesn't turn everything into a challenge. The way I don't feel the need to push back just to keep control of the conversation.
It's subtle, but it's there.
"You're different like this," I say eventually.
He doesn't ask what I mean. "I know."
That should make it easier.
It doesn't.
Because now I know he's aware of it too.
I sit back slightly, fingers tightening around the cup for a second before I relax again.
"This doesn't mean anything," I say, more to myself than to him.
"I didn't say it did."
I look at him, trying to read his expression.
It's steady, uncomplicated. Which somehow makes it harder to figure out.
I nod once, like that settles it, like that answers something.
It doesn't.
Because the feeling doesn't go away.
The one that says something shifted, just slightly, in a way that doesn't change anything on the surface but makes everything underneath feel-
different.
I glance out the window, then back at him.
"This is still weird," I say.
"It's still different," he replies.
I don't argue with that this time. Because-
it is.
And for once, that doesn't feel like something I need to fix immediately.
Which might be the strangest part of all.