The drive to the loft felt like floating.
Not because we talked the whole time.
We didn’t.
Not much.
But because every silence was different now.
Every glance meant more.
Every brush of his hand against mine felt like proof of something I had wanted without realizing how badly I’d wanted it.
He kept looking over at me at red lights like he was still making sure this moment was real.
Like he was waiting for it to disappear if he blinked too long.
And maybe I was doing the same thing.
Because this didn’t feel like a beginning in the simple sense.
It felt like crossing a line neither of us could ever uncross.
The loft was quiet when we got there.
Dimly lit.
Soft.
The city outside the windows looked far away now.
Muted.
Like the world had lowered its volume out of respect.
He
