3. Millie #2
The smile sneaks out before I can catch it. I can't help it—I'm finding out that's just what happens around him. He sees it, and his whole face softens, and he grins back like making me laugh is a personal victory.
Then he tells me about a woman who came into the ER convinced she broke her elbow. Turns out she just slept on it wrong. He tells it so well I can see her face, her absolute certainty, and him standing there trying to explain with a straight face that her arm is just numb.
"She looks at me dead in the eye and says, 'Doctor, I know my own body, and this elbow is broken.
' And I say, 'Ma'am, I respect that, but your X-ray says otherwise.
' And she says, 'Well maybe your X-ray is wrong.
' She then pulls out her phone and shows me a Google result.
A Google result. To prove to me, a board-certified orthopedic surgeon, that her elbow is broken. "
I'm laughing, shoulders shaking, hand over my mouth. And then he adds, "She tells me that I clearly don't know what I'm talking about and that she knows better. She tells that to my face—a doctor who spent years studying for this."
I smile and reach for my phone, ready to type it out, but stop. The joke never lands the same once it's text on a screen. So I let the moment pass, eyes on my plate, because typing a punchline after the beat is dead is worse than not telling it at all.
"Were you about to say something?"
I look up. He's watching me. Head tilted, eyes a little sharper than they were a second ago.
I shake my head.
"No, come on. You just thought of something. I saw it."
I shake my head again. Wave my hand. It's nothing.
"Millie." He leans forward. "Tell me."
He's not letting this go.
I pick up my phone. I type it. I already know it won't land the same. The moment passes. The window closes. He's going to read it and politely smile, and we'll move on.
I turn the phone toward him.
Well, she studies for her medical degree for an hour at Google University. She's equally qualified in her head.
He reads it. His brows pull together for a second, connecting it back to what he said. Then it clicks. His face breaks open. He laughs so hard he puts his hand flat on the table to steady himself, and the couple one table over glances at us, and he doesn't care. He doesn't even notice.
"Wait." He's still laughing. "Wait. Is that what you were thinking when I said that?"
I nod.
"And you were just going to keep that to yourself?"
I shrug. I type. It's funnier in my head. It doesn't translate the same when I type it.
He reads it. He looks at me. And then he says something nobody has ever said to me before.
"Are you kidding? That's hilarious. Okay, new rule." He points at me across the table. "No more holding back. From now on, whatever you're thinking, you show me. I don't care if you think the moment passes. I don't care if you think it won't land. You show me. Deal?"
I look at him. He's smiling, but there's no joke in it. He means this.
I type. Deal.
And after that, everything changes.
He orders dessert without asking me if I want any, then catches himself. "Sorry. Do you want dessert? I just assume because I always want dessert, and I forget not everyone operates like me."
I type. What if I said no?
"Then I'd eat both and feel no shame."
So this was really just an excuse to get two desserts?
"What? Of course not." He shakes his head, then looks up with a mischievous grin. "Maybe."
Too bad. I actually love dessert.
His face falls. "No. You're telling me I don't get two desserts?"
I shake my head.
"Man, I have a whole plan already. I'm going to eat yours with zero guilt." He sighs. "This is devastating news."
You'll survive.
"Barely."
The dessert arrives, and he takes his first bite and closes his eyes like he's having a spiritual experience. I take mine, and it's good, really good, and for a few seconds neither of us says anything.
"Okay, fine," he says. "I'm glad you like dessert. This is a dealbreaker."
I type. Dessert is a dealbreaker for you?
"Absolutely. Non-negotiable. I don't trust people who don't like sweet things."
I have a lot of opinions about cake flavors specifically.
He grins, leaning back in his chair. "You know, for someone who can't talk, you have a lot of opinions."
I freeze for a second. Most people backtrack after saying something like that. Trip over themselves to apologize. But he's just looking at me with that easy grin, no panic, no pity, and he's not being careful with me. He's just talking to me the way he talks to anyone.
And he has no idea how much I appreciate that.
I type. I have more opinions than most people. I just can't interrupt anyone with them.
He reads it and laughs, pointing at me. "See, that's what I'm talking about. You're holding out on the world, Millie."
Maybe. But right now, sitting across from him, I don't feel like I'm holding anything back.
We're walking down the sidewalk, taking our time, neither of us reaching for a reason to say goodnight. The cold is sharp, but I don't mind it. He's close enough that our arms brush every few steps.
"So," he says. "Scale of one to ten. How's your night going?"
I think about it. Then I hold up eight fingers.
"Eight." He puts his hand on his chest. "I share dessert. Willingly. Against my nature. And I get an eight."
Seven of those points are for the food.
"So I'm a one."
I didn't say that.
"No, but you typed it."
I chuckle. Fine. Nine. But only because you make me laugh.
He looks at me. The grin fades into something quieter. "For the record," he says, "you're a ten."
I don't type anything back. We both smile and keep walking.
Until we aren't.
I don't know how it happens. I don't know who moves first. I think it's him. Or maybe it's me, leaning up on my toes because he's taller than I've accounted for. But then his mouth is on mine, and his hand comes up to the side of my face, gentle, careful, and I stop thinking about who starts it.
He pulls back just enough to breathe and whisper my name.
I pull him back.
The second kiss is longer. Slower. His fingers slide into my hair, and I feel his other hand settle at my waist, light enough that I can step away if I want to. I don't want to. I don't want to at all.
He pulls back slightly, our foreheads still touching. "Millie, do you want to come back to my place?"
I'm not the kind of person who does this. I never go home with someone on a first date at all.
But right now I don't want to be the person I usually am. I don't want to be the girl who lost First Chair to her friend three days ago. Or the girl who calculates every interaction three steps ahead because the world isn't built for her silence.
Right now, I just want to be someone having a good night with a man who makes her laugh.
I nod.