Scott
The barista has to come over twice to remind us they’re closing.
The second time, I let out a quiet laugh, glancing up at her with an apology I don’t really mean because neither of us has made any effort to leave.
“Sorry,” I say, even though I’m not, not really, not when sitting here across from him feels easier than anything else has all day.
She smiles like she’s used to this, like we’re not the first people to lose track of time in here, and probably won’t be the last.
Harrison leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he takes in the mostly empty shop around us, his gaze lingering for a second before shifting back to me. “Guess that’s our cue.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I don’t move, and neither does he.
For a moment, we just sit there, suspended in that quiet space between leaving and staying. Eventually, we gather our things, neither of us rushing, neither of us quite ready to step out of whatever this is.
Outside, the air is cooler, carrying that late-night stillness that settles over everything once the town has gone quiet, and the streetlights cast long, soft shadows across the pavement as we walk side by side without really speaking, not because we’ve run out of things to say, but because it feels like we’ve already said everything that matters.
We reach the edge of the lot where our cars are parked. It should end here.
I know that.
I feel it.
And I don’t want it to.
The thought comes before I can stop it, before I can talk myself out of it or convince myself to play it safe the way I always have.
“You, um…” I start, then stop, because apparently I’ve forgotten how words work again. Harrison just watches me, patient, steady, like he’s not in any hurry to fill the silence or rescue me from it.
I try again, forcing myself to push through it. “Do you want to come back to the cottage?”
There it is, out in the open. I brace for hesitation, for questions, for something that tells me I’ve misread this entirely.
He doesn’t hesitate.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.
And just like that, something in my chest settles.
The drive back feels different than it did earlier, not quiet in the same way, not empty, because Harrison follows me the entire time, his headlights steady in my rearview mirror. I catch myself checking more than once just to make sure he’s still there.
When we pull up to the cottage, the lake’s barely visible beyond the trees, the water blending into the dark. I sit there for a second with my hands on the steering wheel, staring out at it like it might give me some kind of answer.
This feels like something. Something I don’t have a name for yet.
By the time I step out of the car, Harrison is already walking toward me, his presence steady in a way that makes everything else feel a little less uncertain.
“This is nice,” he says, glancing around as he takes it in. “I can see why you picked this place.”
“It’s not much,” I reply, unlocking the door and pushing it open. “But it’s quiet out here.”
He nods, like he understands. “I like it.”
I don’t know why that matters. But it does.
Inside, I reach for the lamp out of habit, letting the soft light fill the space.
“You want something to drink?” I ask because it feels like I should offer something, like I should know what to do next.
“I’m good,” he says, glancing around before looking back at me. “You?”
I shake my head, letting out a quiet breath. “No.”
We both laugh a little at how unnecessary the question was.
We don’t go straight to the couch, not right away.
There’s a little pacing first, a few attempts at conversation that circle around nothing important, but eventually we settle there anyway.
Side by side. Not touching, but close enough that I’m aware of him in a way I haven’t been able to ignore since the store.
We talk about Hampstead, about his job, about the cottage and why I bought it, and about everything I thought this move was going to fix. Somewhere in the middle of it, time starts to slip away.
At some point, I realize I’m not holding anything back, not the way I usually do. I’m not measuring every word or filtering every thought before I let it out, and instead of making me pull back, it does the opposite.
“I don’t usually do this,” I admit eventually, my voice quieter now.
“Do what?” he asks, turning slightly toward me.
“This,” I say, gesturing between us, even though I’m not sure how to define it. “Invite someone I just met back to my house.”
He considers that for a second before answering. “Yeah. Me neither.”
I glance at him, studying him in a way without hiding it. “You don’t seem like the type who second-guesses things.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly. “That’s because you’re seeing me on a good day.”
“I don’t think I’ve had many of those.”
The words slip out before I can soften them, and for a moment there’s a pause, not uncomfortable, just honest in a way that makes it harder to look away.
“You do now,” he says.
I meet his gaze, and something in my chest shifts at the certainty in his voice. The way he says it like it’s already decided, and I don’t have to question it.
My shoulder brushes his, and I realize we’ve moved closer. The conversation slows after that, not because we run out of things to say, but because it doesn’t feel necessary to keep filling the silence. A comfortable quiet settles around us. It’s something I’ve never experienced before.
I lean back into the couch, and after a second, he does the same, our arms brushing again.
At some point, my head tips slightly toward him.
I don’t remember deciding to stay there, but at some point, without either of us acknowledging it, we shift just enough that his arm slips around me, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
We fall asleep like that, not quite knowing what this is, only that I don’t want to let it go.
And when I wake up just before sunrise, the first light slipping through the windows, quiet and pale against the walls, he’s still there.