31 | Sunday Walks
THEO
When I woke up, she was still asleep.
I lay there for a moment looking at the ceiling of her bedroom—at the water stain in the corner she’d probably stopped seeing years ago, at the curtains that didn’t quite block the morning light,
at the small chaos of her nightstand with its stacked books and lip balm and a hair tie wrapped around her phone charger.
Her space. Her life, lived in without apology.
I turned my head and looked at her.
Hair spread across the pillow, face slack with sleep, one hand curled loosely under her cheek. No makeup. No performance. Just her, exactly as she was, and something about that—the simple fact of being allowed to see it—settled in my chest in a way I didn’t have words for.
I pressed a kiss to her temple, light enough not to wake her.
She didn’t stir.
I got up carefully, found my phone, and ordered from the place two blocks away that the app said opened at eight.
Then I found her kitchen and figured out her coffee situation, which involved a very old French press and beans that were better than I expected.
Mugs on the second shelf. Sugar she didn’t use.
A drawer that stuck slightly when you pulled it too fast.
Small things to remember.
When she appeared in the doorway forty minutes later, hair wrecked, eyes still soft with sleep, I had coffee waiting and a paper bag of pastries on her kitchen table.
She stopped in the doorway and stared.
“What,” she said.
“Morning.”
“Did you—” Her eyes went to the bag, then back to me. “Did you order us breakfast?”
“French press is ready. The croissants are still warm.”
She was quiet for a moment, arms crossing loosely over her chest. Something moved across her face that she didn’t quite manage to put away in time.
“You’re setting impossible standards,” she said finally.
“I’m really not.”
“Theo.” Her hand gestured at the table. “This is hotel behavior.”
“This is Sunday morning behavior. Sit down.”
She sat.
I moved behind her, reached past her shoulder for the mug, filled it, and set it in front of her. My lips brushed her cheek on the way back—casual, like it meant nothing, like I hadn’t been thinking about doing it since she walked in.
She went very still for a second.
Then she reached for the mug and didn’t say anything.
“Croissant?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I leaned past her again to open the bag, close enough that my arm grazed her shoulder, my chest briefly against her back. Unhurried. Like I had no particular agenda.
Her hand came up and closed around my wrist.
She held it there for a moment—not pulling, not pushing. Just holding.
Then she turned her head and looked up at me, and I kissed her properly, one hand braced on the table beside her, her fingers still wrapped around my wrist like she’d decided I wasn’t going anywhere.
She was right.
When I pulled back she looked at the croissant on the table and then back at me.
“You did that on purpose,” she said.
“I was just reaching for the bag.”
“Theo.”
“Drink your coffee,” I said.
Her mouth pressed together like she was trying not to smile, then she turned back to the table.
I refilled my own mug and stayed standing beside her chair, close enough that her shoulder was warm against my hip, and we sat there in her kitchen in the morning quiet—her eating, me drinking coffee—and it was so easy I kept waiting for something to interrupt it.
Nothing did.
At nine-thirty she started getting ready for work. I sat on her couch and watched her move through her apartment—the specific order of things, the muscle memory of a life. She knew where everything was. Didn’t have to look.
“You don’t have to wait,” she said, pulling her hair up in front of the hallway mirror. “I’ll take the subway.”
“I know.”
Her eyes found mine in the mirror.
“You’re going anyway?”
“I’ll pick you up at six,” I said. “Let's get you to work.”
She turned around and studied my face for a second, like she was checking for something.
“Okay,” she said. Then, quieter: “Okay.”
----
The clinic was twelve minutes away. We didn’t talk much—her head leaned back against the seat, eyes half-closed, coffee thermos balanced on her knee.
I pulled up out front.
She gathered her things without rushing, then leaned over and kissed me—quick, warm, like she’d been doing it for years.
“Thank you,” she said.
“See you later.”
Her mouth curved. Then she was gone through the glass doors.
I drove back to my apartment, which felt immediately too quiet and too ordered after a night in hers. Everything exactly where I’d left it. No drawer that stuck. No French press on the counter.
I changed. Checked my phone.
By four o’clock I was largely useless at anything that required concentration, so I got in the car.
I got to the park forty minutes before her shift ended.
I told myself it was because parking was difficult in this neighborhood. This was not true. Parking was fine. I just wanted to sit somewhere quiet and not be in my apartment, which had started feeling very empty since we came back.
I found a bench near the clinic entrance, pulled out my phone, and attempted to answer emails.
I answered zero emails.
At five-twenty, Bailey found me before I saw her coming—her nose pressing into my knee with the confidence of a dog who had already made up her mind about me.
I looked up.
Henderson stood a few feet away, leash in hand, looking only mildly surprised.
“Morrison.”
“Henderson.”
Bailey climbed halfway onto the bench. Henderson let her, which told me something about him.
“Waiting for Tessa?” he asked.
“She gets off at six.”
“I know.” He sat down on the other end of the bench, leaving space between us. “I walk Bailey around this time most Sundays. She has her last appointment at five-thirty, and sometimes if I time it right—” He stopped. “Sometimes she walks out while we’re passing and we end up talking for a bit.”
I looked at him steadily.
“I know,” he said. “I’m aware of how that sounds.”
“How long?”
“About six months.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Give or take.”
Bailey had put her head in my lap. I scratched her ears and she made a sound of deep contentment, entirely unbothered by the conversation happening above her.
“She’s good with her,” Henderson said, watching the dog. “Bailey’s selective. Doesn’t do that with most people.”
“Tessa’s good with most animals.”
“She’s good with most people.” He paused. “She ever mention me? Tom. The guy with the golden retriever.”
“Not really. But we didn’t talk that much before.”
Bailey had given up on my lap and was investigating something under the bench with forensic dedication.
“Is it serious?” he asked. “You two.”
“Yes.”
“How serious.”
“I’m serious.” I looked at him directly. “Not going anywhere.”
He was quiet for a moment, turning that over.
“And her?”
“I hope so. That’s up to her.” A pause. “If she decides she wants something different—I won’t stand in her way. I want her happy. Whatever that looks like.”
Henderson studied me for a long moment. “That’s a generous thing to say about someone you’re serious about.”
“It’s the truth.”
He nodded slowly, something settling in his expression. “You know, I watched her in Napa. Her face when she looked at you—” He leaned back slightly. “I don’t think you need to worry too much about what she wants.”
I didn’t answer.
“You seem like a good man, Morrison.” He said it plainly, without sentiment. “And she looked genuinely happy. That’s enough for me.” A pause. “I won’t be getting in the way.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Don’t mention it.” His eyes dropped to Bailey. “Literally. Don’t mention it.”
We sat in silence for a moment—not uncomfortable, just two men who had said what needed saying and had nothing left to add.
“How long have you been in love with her?” he asked finally.
The directness of it landed clean.
“Since we were kids,” I said.
He exhaled. “Does she know?”
“She’s starting to. I think.”
He looked down at Bailey, who had abandoned her investigation and was now sitting between us with her tongue out, pleased with herself.
“Bailey.” He leaned down to the dog. “We need to find you a different mummy.”
I opened my mouth.
“Tessa.”
I looked up and she was there—still in her scrubs, bag over one shoulder, her eyes moving between us as she slowed.
“Theo.” Then: “Tom.”
Then, looking between us: “Is everything okay? Is Bailey—”
“She’s fine,” Henderson said, standing. “We were just passing. Right time, right bench.” A smile—easy. “Enjoy your evening.”
Bailey launched herself at Tessa’s legs with full golden retriever commitment, and Tessa laughed and crouched down and the moment dissolved into fur and tail-wagging.
Henderson looked at me once more—brief, final.
“Morrison.”
“Henderson.”
He walked away down the path without looking back, Bailey trotting beside him.
Tessa watched them go. Then her eyes came back to me.
“What did he say?”
“Nothing important.”
Her gaze held mine for a moment, deciding whether to push it. She decided not to.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yeah.” I picked up her bag. "Let's go home."
Her steps slowed at the word.
I'd said it without thinking. Hadn't planned it, hadn't measured it. And now it was out there between us—home, like it was already a shared thing, like the word had simply decided to be true.
She looked up at me. "Yours or mine?"
"Yours," I said.
A pause. Something moved through her expression—soft, there and gone.
"Okay," she said.
Her hand found mine and we walked to the car, and I didn't look back.
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