First Date, First Glimpse of Forever
1151 Words
Chapter Nine: First Date, First Glimpse of Forever
The invitation had come unexpectedly.
Max stood at Catherine’s desk one Friday evening, holding two tickets.
“What's this?” she asked, glancing up from her laptop.
“There’s a Scandinavian architecture exhibit opening tomorrow at the Design Museum,” he said, almost too casually. “I thought… maybe you’d want to go.”
She tilted her head. “Are you asking me out?”
He cleared his throat. “Strictly speaking, I’m inviting you to admire cantilever beam structures… with snacks.”
She grinned. “So a date with concrete and appetizers?”
“And me,” he added, his voice quieter now.
Her smile softened. “I’d love to.”
The Date
It wasn’t lavish, just right. The museum was quiet, lit with soft gallery lights and modern wood accents. They wandered slowly through exhibits, stopping at scale models and pausing to debate details.
“That angle is terrible,” Catherine said, frowning at a minimalist roofline.
“It’s award-winning,” Max countered.
“It looks like a shoehorn.”
He laughed—really laughed—and she felt it in her chest like sunlight cracking through cloud cover.
Later, they sat outside on a bench, hot drinks between them and a view of Copenhagen’s twinkling harbor.
“You’re different here,” she said softly.
“How so?”
“Softer. Less red pen. More… human.”
He looked at her, his voice low. “I’ve always been human with you. You’re just the first person who looked past the armor.”
She blinked. “Max…”
“I like you, Catherine. More than I should, probably. And I’ve wanted to say that for a while.”
Her hand inched toward his. “Then say it again.”
“I like you.”
She smiled. “Good. Because I like you, too.”
He leaned in—not rushed, not tentative. Just sure. And when he kissed her, it was a gentle promise that things could be good again.
The Next Weekend — Meeting the Kids
Catherine paced the apartment like a woman preparing for battle. She smoothed her blouse for the fifth time, peeked into the oven again, then fluffed a couch pillow that absolutely did not need fluffing. The scent of baked chicken filled the room, but all she could smell was nerves.
At the table, Leo and Mira sat cross-legged, deeply focused on their coloring books. Crayons were scattered everywhere like fallen soldiers.
“Why are you nervous?” Leo asked without looking up, picking a blue crayon for his dragon’s wings.
“I’m not,” Catherine lied, adjusting a spoon on the placemat like it was a chess piece.
“You so are,” Freda said, leaning against the counter with an amused smirk. She placed clean plates on the table, watching Catherine spin in her imaginary tornado. “It’s just Max.”
“Exactly,” Catherine muttered. “Max. The man who critiques my font choices. He’s meeting my children. What if they hate him? What if he thinks I’m a disaster outside of blueprints?”
“What if they love him and he thinks your chaotic motherhood is endearing?” Freda offered, winking.
Catherine was about to argue when a knock echoed through the apartment. Her heart jumped.
She opened the door.
Max stood there, somehow managing to look sharp and endearing at the same time in a dark, fitted sweater and jeans. He held a small box of chocolate pastries in one hand and a bouquet of tiny wildflowers—slightly lopsided, clearly not from a florist—in the other.
“These are for Mira,” he said, holding them out. “Leo can share the pastries… if he asks nicely.”
Mira squealed, abandoning her crayons as she dashed over. “Flowers!” She cradled them like treasure.
Leo, however, narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms. “Are you the grumpy one from Mommy’s work?”
Max blinked. “Guilty as charged.”
Leo tilted his head, squinting like a tiny detective. “Do you know how to play Uno?”
“I am,” Max said with mock solemnity, “highly competitive.”
Leo’s eyes gleamed with interest. “You’re in.”
From the kitchen, Freda gave Catherine a subtle thumbs-up.
Later that night, the dining table was cluttered with dinner plates, Uno cards, and bursts of laughter. Mira had convinced Max to braid her hair—badly—and Leo was fiercely defending the “no peeking” rule. Max didn’t try to be charming. He just was—quietly, sincerely himself.
And Catherine? She finally stopped pacing.
For once, life felt… light. And maybe, just maybe, the architect of her new beginning wasn’t just herself anymore.
Later That Night
The apartment was warm—not just from the oven still cooling or the pile of blankets on the couch, but from the laughter that lingered in the air and the faint hum of Mira’s off-key singing drifting from her bedroom like a lullaby. Crumbs from dinner and card games littered the coffee table, the aftermath of a night that didn’t try to be perfect—just real.
On the floor near the couch, Leo leaned into Max’s side, his small shoulder nestled against Max’s arm as he clutched a fan of colorful Uno cards. His brow furrowed in concentration, but the edge of his mouth twitched with something softer than competitiveness.
“You’re not bad,” Leo muttered, as if saying it too clearly might make it less true.
Max raised a brow, glancing down at him. “High praise coming from the reigning champion.”
Leo smirked, then hesitated. He turned slightly, voice dropping just above a whisper. “Do you like my mom?”
Max didn’t miss a beat. “I do. Very much.”
Leo looked up at him with serious, thoughtful eyes—the kind too grown-up for his age. “Are you gonna stay?”
The question settled like snow—soft, silent, impossible to ignore.
Max turned, meeting the boy’s gaze head-on. “I’d like to.”
Across the room, Catherine had paused mid-step with a tray of dessert cups in her hands. She was watching them—her son, her boss, her quiet hope—eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her heart.
Later, after the dishes were washed and the cards tucked back in their box, Catherine walked Max to the door. The hallway light cast a soft glow over everything. She reached for his hand, fingers brushing his in a quiet invitation.
“You’re already part of us, you know,” she said, her voice low, but certain.
Max looked at her, and something gentle bloomed in his expression—a kind of peace he didn’t wear often.
“Then I’m not going anywhere.”
- Writer
