Chapter 57: Almost

"That’s not fair," she murmured. "You can’t just say things like that."

"Why not?"

"Because," She turned back to him, and her eyes were doing that thing again, the soft, slightly overwhelmed thing that made his chest tighten in ways he wasn’t fully comfortable with. "Because it makes me forget what I was talking about."

"You were telling me about dipping sauces."

"Oh yes, I was telling you about dipping sauces," she repeated, laughing despite herself. "Three kinds. Honey mustard, garlic aioli, and a spicy one I made from scratch."

"You made a dipping sauce from scratch?"

"Don’t judge me."

"I’m not judging. I’m impressed. I didn’t even know dipping sauces could be made from scratch."

"You’ve been living a very deprived life, Stan Harrison."

"Clearly. Thank god you’re here to fix that." Stan was really smooth with his words, even though his heart was as hard as stone.

Sophie’s laugh was warmer this time, lower, easier, the laugh of a woman who was settling into a conversation the way you settle into a favorite chair. She shifted slightly in her seat, and her shoulder came to rest against his. She didn’t move away. Neither did he.

The taxi hummed through an intersection. The driver changed lanes. The city lights were beginning to flicker on in the gathering dusk, dotting the skyline in scattered constellations.

"What else did you set up?" Stan asked. "In the apartment."

"Oh." Sophie’s eyes widened slightly, as if she’d been hoping he would ask. "I got candles. Not the scented ones, those give me headaches. Just the plain white ones, the kind that make everything look soft. And I found these gorgeous linen placemats at a home store near campus. Slate gray. Very understated."

"Understated placemats. For a fried chicken dinner."

"I contain multitudes, Stan."

"Evidently."

"And I set up the balcony," she continued, her voice picking up speed with enthusiasm. "The apartment has this incredible balcony, you probably don’t even know this, but the balcony faces west, and the sunset view from there is nice," She paused, searching for the right word. "It’s the kind of view that makes you want to just stand there and not talk for a while."

"Is that where we’re eating?"

"If the weather holds. I checked three different weather apps."

"Three, isn’t that too much?"

"I wasn’t taking chances."

Stan turned his head slightly to look at her. She was still talking, something about the playlist she’d curated, the wine she’d picked out and then put back because she wasn’t sure if he drank, the backup sparkling water she’d bought instead, and her hands were moving in small, animated gestures, her eyes bright with the particular energy of someone who cared very much about getting every detail right.

She wasn’t performing. She wasn’t trying to impress him with sophistication or wealth or status. She was a girl who’d woken up at six in the morning to marinate chicken for a boy she liked, and she was telling him about it with the kind of unguarded happiness that money couldn’t buy and couldn’t fake.

’Don’t fall in love,’ Stan reminded himself.

The reminder felt increasingly theoretical.

Sophie must have sensed the shift in his attention, because she trailed off mid-sentence and looked up at him. Their faces were close, closer than either of them had consciously arranged.

The city light from the window was catching the edge of her jaw, the curve of her lower lip, the dark sweep of her lashes.

"What?" she whispered.

"Nothing." His voice was quieter than he’d intended. "You’re just,"

He didn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure how to. The words beautiful and ridiculous and dangerously easy to be around were all jostling for position, and none of them quite captured the specific thing he was feeling.

Sophie’s eyes searched his face. Her lips parted slightly, Stan’s gaze drifted to them... They were red, looked so soft, full and inviting that he felt like kissing her ravenously right at that moment...

Her breathing had changed, shorter, shallower, the involuntary shift that happens when the body recognizes what the mind hasn’t admitted yet. She was feeling thesame way as him... She couldn’t hold the urge any longer...

She tilted her head. Just slightly. Just enough.

Stan leaned in too.

The gap between them narrowed to inches. Then to centimeters. He could feel the warmth of her breath. He could smell the faint, clean scent of her perfume, the same subtle floral he’d noticed the first time he’d ever stood close to her, in the courtyard, in the crowd, a lifetime ago.

Sophie’s eyes fluttered half-closed.

Her fingers found the front of his jacket, curling gently into the fabric. Her other hand rose to his jaw, tracing its line softly, guiding his chin with an intimacy that made the air between them feel thinner, warmer.

Outside the taxi, the world blurred into soft, meaningless motion. There was nothing else. Just warmth, closeness, and that charged, suspended stillness of two people on the verge of crossing a line that couldn’t be undone.

Their lips hovered a breath apart about to touch

"We’re here."

The driver’s voice cut through the moment like cold water.

They both froze.

"Four Seasons Garden, Crown Jewel Tower," the driver announced cheerfully, entirely oblivious to what he had just interrupted. "That’ll be twenty-two dollars."

Sophie pulled back first, quickly, instinctively, her cheeks flooding with color. She pressed one hand to her face and let out a small, breathless laugh that was equal parts embarrassment and disbelief.

Stan exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight, and reached for his wallet with the measured composure of a man exercising superhuman restraint.

He paid the driver. Tipped generously but said nothing.

They climbed out of the taxi on opposite sides and met on the sidewalk in front of Building Seven. The evening air was cool against their flushed skin. The building rose above them, elegant and dark against the deepening sky.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Sophie glanced at him sideways, a small, shy, impossibly lovely smile playing at the corner of her mouth.

"So," she said softly. "Fried chicken?"

Stan looked at her, at the smile, at the blush still lingering on her cheeks, at the velvet necklace box clutched against her chest like a lifeline, and felt the last bolt holding his composure in place creak dangerously.

"Yes, fried chicken," he confirmed.

Sophie turned toward the entrance, and Stan fell into step beside her. Their shoulders brushed as they walked. Neither of them moved away.

The lobby doors opened. The elevator was waiting.

And the evening, Stan suspected, was just getting started.