Chapter 4: The Walk and the Warning
The late afternoon sun had given up hours ago, leaving the campus bathed in that peculiar blue-gray wash that made everything look like a photograph left too long in a drawer. The pathway between the music building and humanities hall stretched narrow and uneven, its cracks mapped like veins across the pavement, and the old oaks overhead dropped shadows that shifted with the wind.
Zay stood at the center of a loose semicircle, his back against a brick pillar, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his black hoodie. Marcus was on his left, talking with his hands the way he always did when he got excited about something that didn't matter—a fight he'd seen on YouTube, some girl he'd matched with on an app he'd delete by morning. Dee leaned against the opposite pillar, quiet as usual, eyes scanning the crowd with that particular stillness that came from years of watching instead of talking.
Two other faces rounded out the circle. Terrence, who ran the southside distribution and had a laugh that carried three blocks. And June, who wasn't crew but was close enough that nobody questioned her presence—she handled Zay's books, kept the numbers clean, and never asked questions she didn't want answered. She was also the only one who could tell him he was being an idiot without getting a cold stare in return.
"So then," Marcus was saying, "this dude just swings on the ref. The ref. Like, full wind-up and everything."
"Did he connect?" Terrence asked.
"Nah. Ref ducked and the dude ate the mat. Hard. I'm talking face-first, no hands, just—" Marcus smacked his palm against his fist.
"That's embarrassing," June said, not looking up from her phone.
"Embarrassing? Man, that's a lawsuit."
The conversation rolled on, easy and familiar. Zay listened without really listening, nodding when it felt right, his attention drifting the way it did when he was surrounded by noise that didn't require his input. His eyes moved across the campus without purpose—students heading to evening classes, a couple arguing near the bike racks, a professor hauling a rolling suitcase like he was fleeing the country.
Then his gaze caught on something.
Three figures cutting across the lawn, moving toward the pathway. He recognized the one in the middle first—the way she walked, the way she held her chin, the way her hair caught the light even when there wasn't any. Nova wore a burgundy sweater tucked into wide-leg jeans, a tote bag slung over one shoulder, and she was laughing at something the girl on her right had said.
Zay felt his jaw tighten before he could stop it.
Three days since the rooftop.
Three days of replaying that kiss in his truck, of telling himself it didn't mean what it meant, of staring at his phone like it owed him something.
He hadn't called. She hadn't called either.
And now here she was, walking past like it was nothing, like the whole night had been a fever dream he'd imagined.
Marcus caught him looking.
"Who's that?" he asked, following Zay's gaze.
"Nobody."
"Doesn't look like nobody."
Zay pushed off the pillar. Took two steps forward. Called her name.
"Nova."
The word cut through the ambient noise of the courtyard, sharp enough that a few heads turned. Nova stopped mid-step. Her friends stopped with her. She turned, scanning the crowd until her eyes landed on him, and for half a second, something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or the ghost of a smile.
Then it was gone, replaced by that same unreadable mask she'd worn outside the lecture hall.
She said something to her friends. They exchanged looks, curious and cautious, before drifting toward a bench a few feet away. Nova walked over alone, her footsteps slow, her expression neutral.
"Zay," she said.
Just his name. No warmth. No edge. A statement.
"You been avoiding me?"
The question came out before he'd decided to ask it. He heard how it sounded—needy, almost—and hated himself for it.
Nova's eyebrow arched.
"Been focused on my classes," she said. "Finals coming up. Studio time. You know how it is."
"I don't, actually."
"Because you've been texting so much?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. He couldn't tell if she was teasing or genuinely annoyed. Maybe both.
"I've been busy," he said.
"So have I."
They stood there, three feet apart, the space between them filled with everything they hadn't said since Saturday night. Zay could feel his crew watching. Could feel June's eyes on the back of his neck, cataloging every detail. He ignored them.
"You look good," he said.
"Thanks."
"That's it?"
"What do you want me to say?" Nova tilted her head. "That I've been thinking about you? That I checked my phone every hour for two days hoping you'd call?" She paused. "Because I didn't. I've got too much to do to sit around waiting for a man to decide what he wants."
The words hit like a slap. Clean. Precise. Deserved.
Zay opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a voice cut through from behind him—high and bright and edged with something that wasn't quite friendly.
"Zay, who's your friend?"
Two girls had drifted over from the crew's orbit. He recognized them vaguely—Keisha and Amber, maybe, or Amber and someone else. They hung around sometimes, hoping to be noticed, hoping to be picked, and he'd never given either of them more than a passing glance.
Now they were standing at his elbow like they belonged there.
The one on the left—Keisha—looked Nova up and down with a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Keisha. I don't think we've met."
Nova's gaze slid from Keisha to Zay and back again. Her expression didn't change.
"We haven't," Nova said.
"You new around here?"
"I've been here."
"Huh." Keisha exchanged a look with her friend. "I feel like we'd remember you. You're kind of—" She paused, searching for the word. "Intense."
"Is that a problem?"
"Not for me." Keisha laughed, light and performative. "Just saying. You got that whole 'don't talk to me' vibe going on. Like you think you're too good to hang out with regular people."
The second girl—Amber—snickered.
Nova didn't flinch. Didn't shift her weight. Just stood there, still as water, and looked at Keisha like she was examining a bug she'd found on her shoe.
"You want to know what I think?" Nova said.
"We're on the edge of our seats."
Nova smiled. It wasn't warm.
"I think you're threatened by me," she said. "I think you saw Zay call my name—not yours—and something in your chest went tight because it confirmed something you already knew." She stepped closer, slow, deliberate. "And I think you're about to say something else that's supposed to make me feel small, but the only person you're embarrassing is yourself."
Keisha's smile slipped.
"Because here's the thing," Nova continued, her voice calm and level. "I don't need to tear you down. I don't need to compete. I'm not interested in whatever game you're playing, because I'm not playing. So you can keep talking, and everyone here can watch you try to figure out why it's not working. Or you can walk away with whatever's left of your dignity and pretend this never happened."
The courtyard went quiet.
Not all at once. It happened in waves—first the crew, then the scattered clusters of students nearby, then the ones who'd stopped walking to watch. The air grew heavy with that particular silence that follows a choice.
Keisha's face had gone red. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You don't even know me," she finally managed.
"You're right," Nova said. "And I don't want to."
She turned back to Zay. Her expression was still calm, but he could see something underneath it—not anger, not hurt. Something closer to disappointment.
"You called my name," she said, quiet enough that only he could hear. "Was there something you wanted?"
Zay didn't answer right away.
He was too busy staring at Keisha and Amber, who were still standing there, frozen, their faces caught somewhere between fury and shame. The rest of the courtyard was watching—his crew, the passersby, everyone. Waiting to see what he'd do.
He made a decision.
"Keisha," he said.
She looked at him, hopeful.
"Take your friend and go."
The hope died.
"What?"
"I said go." His voice was flat. Final. "I didn't ask you to come over here. I didn't ask for your opinion. You're embarrassing yourself, and you're embarrassing me by association."
Keisha's mouth fell open.
"You can't be serious."
"Do I look like I'm joking?"
Amber grabbed Keisha's arm, pulling her back. "Let's just go," she hissed. "Come on."
They retreated. It took longer than it should have—Keisha kept looking back, like she expected him to call after her, to apologize, to change his mind. He didn't. He just watched them go, stone-faced, until they disappeared around the corner of the humanities building.
Then he turned back to Nova.
She was watching him with an expression he couldn't read.
"You didn't have to do that," she said.
"Yeah, I did."
"Why?"
"Because they were out of line." He stepped closer. "And because I don't like people disrespecting you."
Nova held his gaze. "Since when?"
"Since always."
"You sure have a funny way of showing it."
He flinched. Just slightly. Just enough that she saw it.
"I know," he said.
The crew was still behind him. He could feel their eyes, their questions, their judgment. Marcus was probably already planning to interrogate him the second Nova walked away. June was probably already taking mental notes.
But Zay didn't care.
"I don't bring people around them," he said, tilting his head toward the others. "I keep things separate. You know that."
Nova waited.
"The fact that I called your name in front of them—" He paused, searching for the words. "That means something. Whether you believe it or not."
She studied him for a long moment. The wind pushed her hair across her face, and she didn't bother to move it.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay, I hear you." She shifted her bag on her shoulder. "But you're still missing the point."
"What point?"
"I don't need you to prove anything to a crowd." She gestured vaguely at the courtyard, at the crew, at the students still lingering, pretending not to watch. "I don't care what you say in front of Marcus or June or whoever else. I don't care if you claim me in front of the whole campus."
She stepped closer. Close enough that he could smell whatever she was wearing—something clean, something that reminded him of rain.
"I need you to prove it to me," she said. "Alone. When there's no audience and nothing to perform."
Zay's throat felt tight.
"I told you I would."
"You told me a lot of things." She looked up at him, her eyes dark and steady. "But I'm still waiting."
She held his gaze for one more beat.
Then she turned and walked toward the lecture hall.
Zay watched her go. Watched the way she moved through the crowd like it parted for her, watched her push through the heavy double doors, watched the light from inside spill out onto the pavement before swallowing her whole.
The doors swung shut.
He stood there, hands still in his pockets, the echo of her words ringing in his ears.
I'm still waiting.
Behind him, Marcus cleared his throat.
"So," he said. "That's 'nobody,' huh?"
Zay didn't turn around.
"Shut up, Marcus."
"Just saying."
Zay finally turned. The crew was watching him—Terrence with raised eyebrows, Dee with his usual stillness, June with something that looked dangerously close to amusement.
"She seems nice," June said.
Zay stared at her.
"I'm serious," June continued. "I like her. She doesn't take your shit."
"She's not my—"
"Don't." June held up a hand. "Don't finish that sentence. You'll regret it."
Zay's jaw tightened. He looked back toward the lecture hall, where the doors had closed, where Nova was probably already finding a seat, pulling out a notebook, moving on with her life like he was just another thing she'd handled.
I need you to prove it to me.
He exhaled slowly.
"Can't," he said.
"Hmm?"
"Can't finish that sentence. Because I don't know how it ends."
June nodded, slow and knowing.
"Then you better figure it out," she said. "Before someone else does."
The words settled over him like a cold front.
He pulled out his phone. Stared at the screen. Thought about all the things he could say, all the ways he could prove it, all the reasons he shouldn't.
Then he typed four words.
Not yet. But soon.
He sent it before he could second-guess himself.
The read receipt came through almost immediately. Then nothing.
He pocketed the phone and turned back to his crew.
"Marcus," he said. "Let's ride."
They moved toward the parking lot, leaving the courtyard behind. But Zay's mind stayed behind, caught in the space between her departure and his reply.
Not yet.
But soon.
He hoped she believed him.
He hoped he believed himself.
He hoped he believed himself.
The thought followed him home like a stray dog. It sat in the passenger seat of his truck, rode up the stairs to his apartment, and settled on his chest while he stared at the ceiling until three in the morning. When sleep finally came, it was thin and restless, punctuated by dreams he couldn't remember and a name he couldn't shake.
He woke up angry.
Not at her. At himself. At the way he'd spent years building walls and calling them wisdom. At the way she'd looked at him in that courtyard—not with disappointment, but with something worse. Expectation. Like she actually believed there was something underneath all the armor worth waiting for.
The anger carried him through the next day. Through a morning meeting with his supplier that ran long. Through an afternoon shift at the store that felt like wading through wet cement. Through a text from June that just said: Proud of you—which he ignored because he didn't know what to do with it.
By Wednesday, the anger had cooled into something else. Something that felt dangerously close to resolve.
He was restocking the soul section when it hit him. Not a lightning bolt. Not a grand revelation. Just a quiet knowing that settled in his bones like a record dropping onto a spindle.
He was going to do it. Not for her. Not even for himself, really. For the possibility of something he'd never let himself want.
He pulled out his phone.
What are you doing Friday?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Why?
Just answer the question.
Nothing yet. Studying probably.
Good. Keep it open.
A pause. Then: That's not how this works. You don't get to just claim my Friday without telling me why.
He smiled. Just a little.
I'm not claiming it. I'm asking.
Asking what?
For you to trust me.
No response for a long minute. He watched the screen, thumb hovering, heart doing something inconvenient in his chest.
Fine, she finally wrote. But if this is another rooftop situation, I'm walking.
Understood.
He pocketed the phone and looked around the store. At the shelves he'd built with his own hands. At the records he'd collected over years of digging through thrift shops and estate sales. At the turntable that had played him through heartbreaks he'd never admit to having.
He had three days.
He started planning.
Thursday was for the food.
He closed the store early and drove to the market across town—the one with the butcher who knew his name and the produce section that didn't look like it had been picked over by raccoons. He moved through the aisles with purpose, grabbing things without second-guessing himself. Chicken thighs. Fresh thyme. Garlic. A lemon. Red potatoes. Asparagus, thin and bright green.
He stopped in the wine section and stood there for ten minutes.
He knew nothing about wine. He'd never needed to. But Nova had mentioned something once—in passing, on the rooftop, when she was talking about the first fancy dinner she'd been taken to as a teenager. She'd said the wine tasted like peaches. She'd said it made her feel grown in a way she wasn't ready for.
He pulled out his phone and searched. Then he grabbed a bottle of Riesling and hoped for the best.
Friday morning, he didn't sleep in.
He got to the store at eight, two hours before he usually opened, and started working. The decorations came first—not gaudy, not overdone, just enough to shift the air. White string lights draped along the ceiling, weaving between the exposed pipes and the wooden beams. A few candles placed on the counter, on the shelves, on the windowsill.
He moved the listening chairs from the back room to the front, positioning them near the turntable like two islands in a sea of records. A small table between them, covered with a dark blue cloth he'd found in the back of his closet.
Then came the records.
He pulled from his private collection with a careful hand. Each album held a specific gravity, a memory he could taste. He chose them the way he'd choose words for a conversation he'd been rehearsing his whole life.
First: What's Going On by Marvin Gaye. Not because it was obvious, but because the opening track reminded him of the way Nova walked into a room—slow, deliberate, and full of something that demanded attention.
Second: Voodoo by D'Angelo. Because the bass lines made him think of her laugh. Low and rich and impossible to replicate.
Third: Baduizm by Erykah Badu. Because "Other Side of the Game" was the first song that popped into his head when he thought about the way she looked at him—like she could see through his bullshit and still decided to stay.
Fourth: Blonde by Frank Ocean. Because he'd never listened to it before without feeling something he couldn't name. And he had a feeling she'd understand.
Fifth: Mama's Gun by Erykah again. Because the track "Bag Lady" reminded him of the way she'd walked away from him in that courtyard, unhurried, unbothered, carrying her own weight.
He stacked them near the turntable and stepped back.
Then he looked at the empty spaces.
She'd taken two records from his collection. Prince. Both original pressings. He hadn't replaced them yet, and now he saw the gaps like missing teeth. He pulled two substitutes from the back—a reissue of Parade and a clean copy of Dirty Mind—and placed them in the empty slots.
Not the same. But close.
He prepped the food next.
The chicken went into a marinade—olive oil, lemon, garlic, a handful of thyme. He let it sit while he chopped the potatoes, tossed them with salt and pepper, and slid them into the oven on a sheet pan. The asparagus went into the fridge, waiting for the final sear.
He checked the clock. Four hours until sunset.
He showered in the back bathroom, changed into a fresh black henley and dark jeans—simple, clean, nothing that tried too hard. He ran a hand through his hair and looked at himself in the mirror.
You're doing this.
Then he grabbed his keys and drove to her place.
The drive took twenty minutes. He parked down the block, not wanting to appear too eager, then walked to her building with the kind of measured pace that came from years of practice. The porch light was on. Her window glowed warm on the second floor.
He knocked.
The door opened after a beat. Nova stood there in leggings and a loose sweatshirt, her hair tied up in a messy bun, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She looked at him like he was a puzzle she hadn't decided whether to solve.
"You're here," she said.
"I said I would be."
"I didn't actually believe you."
"Fair." He put his hands in his pockets. "Can I borrow you for the evening?"
She folded her arms. "Borrow me?"
"I'll bring you back. Promise."
"That's not actually funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny." He held her gaze. "I'm trying to be serious. Which, for me, is a lot."
She studied him. The pencil behind her ear. The way her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile but wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
"What about the date rules?" she asked. "No games. No running. I pick the place."
"You picked the last place. This one's on me."
"That's not—"
"I know." He stepped closer. "But I'm asking anyway. Trust me. Just for tonight."
She looked at him for a long moment. The wind moved through the trees behind him. Somewhere down the street, a car door slammed.
"Fine," she said. "Give me five minutes."
She disappeared inside. The door stayed open. He took that as an invitation and stepped into the hallway, leaning against the wall while he waited. He could hear her moving upstairs—drawers opening, closet doors sliding, footsteps crossing the floor.
She came down after seven minutes, which he counted.
The sweatshirt was gone. In its place, a fitted black top tucked into high-waisted jeans. Her hair was down now, curled in a way that looked effortless but had to have taken time. She'd put on earrings—silver hoops that caught the hall light.
"Better?" she asked.
"You looked fine before."
"That's not what I asked."
He shrugged. "You look good."
"Good."
"Good."
She shook her head and walked past him, grabbing her coat off the hook by the door. "Let's go before you say something else charming."
The drive was quiet. Not uncomfortable—just anticipatory. She watched the streets pass without asking where they were going, and he kept his eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel. The radio stayed off. The only sounds were the engine and the occasional turn signal.
When he pulled up outside the record store, she frowned.
"Your shop?"
"Yeah."
"It's closed."
"I know."
She looked at him. He looked back.
"Trust me," he said.
She got out of the truck.
He led her to the front door, unlocked it, and held it open. The bell above the frame jingled, same as always. But the air inside was different—warmer, softer, filled with the low hum of a record already spinning on the turntable.
Nova stepped in and stopped.
The string lights cast the room in a golden haze. Candles flickered on the shelves, their flames casting dancing shadows across the record spines. The two chairs sat near the turntable, a small table between them with two glasses and the bottle of Riesling he'd chosen.
The whole place smelled like thyme and garlic and something faintly sweet.
She turned in a slow circle. Took in the lights. The candles. The careful arrangement of everything.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Dinner." He moved past her toward the back room, where he'd set up a hot plate and the food he'd prepped. "And music. And talking. Maybe dancing, if you're up for it."
She didn't respond right away. When he came back out with two plates—chicken, potatoes, asparagus arranged like he'd actually thought about it—she was still standing in the middle of the room, her coat still on.
"You did all this," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"For me."
"Yeah."
She finally moved. Hung her coat on the rack by the door. Walked toward the table. Sat down in one of the chairs, her eyes still scanning the room like she was looking for the trick.
He set the plate in front of her. Poured the wine.
"This is—" She paused. "Unexpected."
"That's the point."
"No, I mean—" She shook her head. "You don't do this. You don't decorate. You don't cook. You don't send cryptic texts about trusting you."
"I'm full of surprises."
"I'm not laughing."
"I know."
She picked up her fork. Took a bite of the chicken. Her eyes widened, just slightly, before she caught herself.
"This is actually good," she said.
"Don't sound so shocked."
"I'm not shocked. I'm—" She took another bite. "Okay, I'm a little shocked."
He sat down across from her and picked up his own fork. For a moment, they just ate. The record spun—Marvin Gaye, side two—and the candles flickered, and the silence between them felt less like a wall and more like a held breath.
"You want to know something?" she said.
"Always."
"I didn't think you were going to text back. After the courtyard, I mean." She set her fork down. "I figured you'd go back to your crew, convince yourself I was too much work, and move on."
"I thought about it."
"I know you did."
"But I didn't."
"I know." She looked at him. "Why?"
He took a sip of wine. Let it sit on his tongue before he swallowed.
"Because you're not work," he said. "You're just hard to ignore."
She smiled. Small. Real.
"Was that almost a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it."
"Too late."
They ate. They talked. Not about anything important—just the rhythm of easy conversation. She told him about her music theory professor, a man who wore bow ties every day and once spent an entire lecture on the emotional significance of the bridge in "God Only Knows." He told her about his regulars—the older man who came in every Tuesday to flip through the jazz section, never buying anything, just touching the spines like they were old friends.
She laughed at that. Loud. Unfiltered.
The sound hit him somewhere he wasn't expecting.
When the meal was done, he cleared the plates. She wandered toward the shelves, her fingers brushing across the records like she was reading braille. He watched her from the back room, watched the way she moved through his space like she belonged in it, and felt something shift in his chest.
He came back out with the wine bottle and topped off both glasses.
"The playlist," he said, gesturing toward the turntable. "I made one. For tonight."
"You made a playlist?"
"Don't make it weird."
"Too late." She settled into one of the chairs. "Let's hear it."
He swapped the Marvin Gaye record for the D'Angelo. Dropped the needle. The bass line of "Playa Playa" filled the room, slow and filthy and perfect.
Nova's eyebrows rose.
"You chose this?" she asked.
"I did."
"Why?"
"Because it's good." He sat down across from her. "And because it made me think of you."
She looked at him. The music pulsed between them.
"How?"
"The bass," he said. "The groove. It's smooth on the surface but there's something underneath. Something you have to listen for."
She didn't respond. Just watched him, her eyes unreadable.
The song shifted into "Devil's Pie." The tempo picked up. He saw her foot move under the table, tapping against the floor.
"Dance with me," he said.
"What?"
"Dance with me."
She laughed. "There's no dance floor."
"We don't need one."
He stood. Offered his hand. She looked at it like it might bite.
"You're serious," she said.
"I'm always serious."
"You're never serious."
"I'm serious right now."
She hesitated. Then she took his hand.
He pulled her to her feet. The space between the chairs was narrow, but they made it work. He put one hand on her waist. She put hers on his shoulder. They swayed—not really dancing, just moving together, the music filling the gaps.
"You're not very good at this," she said.
"At what?"
"Dancing in small spaces."
"I'm doing fine."
"You stepped on my foot."
"That was intentional."
"Was it?"
"No." He smiled. "But I'll pretend it was."
She laughed again. That same loud, unfiltered laugh. He felt it resonate in his chest.
They moved through the D'Angelo record. Then Erykah came on—the Baduizm record—and the tempo slowed. "Other Side of the Game" filled the room, and Nova's hand tightened on his shoulder.
"This song," she said.
"What about it?"
"It's my mother's favorite. She used to play it on Sunday mornings while she cooked breakfast."
"What did you think of it back then?"
"I didn't get it." She looked up at him. "I was too young to understand what she was saying. About sacrifice. About loving someone even when it costs you."
"And now?"
"Now I get it."
They swayed in silence. The song built and broke. The candles burned lower.
"You know what I think?" she said.
"What?"
"I think you made this playlist to tell me something." She looked at him. "But you're too scared to say it out loud."
He didn't answer. Just kept moving.
"Am I wrong?" she asked.
"No."
"Then say it."
He stopped moving. Looked at her. Really looked at her—the curve of her jaw, the light in her eyes, the slight part of her lips.
"I want to try," he said. "Whatever this is. I want to try."
"That's not what I asked."
"It's what I've got."
She studied him. The song wound down. The needle hit the run-out groove and the room went quiet.
"That's enough," she said. "For now."
They stood there, still holding each other, the silence settling over them like a blanket.
Then Nova pulled back. Not away—just enough to see his face.
"Play the next one," she said.
He did.
The Frank Ocean record came on. "Nikes" filled the room, slow and ethereal. Nova took his hand again and pulled him back into the small space between the chairs.
They danced. They laughed. They talked about everything and nothing—about her dreams of producing for artists who mattered, about his plans for the store, about the way the city felt different at night. The wine went down easy. The candles burned lower. The records stacked up, one after another, until the pile was empty and the turntable spun in silence.
Nova looked at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
"What time is it?" she asked.
He checked his phone. "Almost midnight."
"I should go."
"You don't have to."
"I know." She stepped closer. "But we have time."
"We do."
She reached up. Touched his jaw. Just a brush of her fingers.
"Thank you," she said. "For this."
"Don't thank me."
"Why not?"
"Because I should've done it sooner."
She smiled. Then she grabbed her coat and walked to the door. He followed, unlocked the deadbolt, held it open while she stepped out into the night.
"I'll text you," she said.
"I'll answer."
She looked back at him one more time. The porch light caught her face, soft and gold.
"Goodnight, Isaiah."
"Zay."
"Isaiah." She walked away, and the bell above the door jingled as she disappeared into the dark.
He stood there for a long time after she left. The candles burned out, one by one. The string lights stayed on, casting the empty shop in a quiet glow.
She'd called him Isaiah.
He didn't correct her the second time.
He didn't want to.
He pulled out his phone and typed four words.
Same time next week?
The reply came three minutes later.
Don't push it.
But she added a period. Not a period and a frown. Not a period and a question mark.
Just a period. And he took that as a yes.