It was the small gestures that mattered: the way he kept pace with her stride, the way he pointed out a mural painted by teenagers who were not yet famous, the way his voice softened when they crossed a small canal.
He didn’t pry so much. There was a carefulness to him that wasn’t about distance but about patience. He watched the way she moved, like someone cataloging beauty rather than hunting it. In return, she noticed curious things about him: the freckle near his ear, the ink smudge on his thumb, the way he hummed under his breath when a saxophone played in a corner.
At her door, the walk slowed into a hush. The apartment looked small from the outside, a tall window with chipped paint and a balcony barely big enough for a chair. She hesitated, fingers on the key. In the time he unloc
