I never really plan our dates. They just..happen. Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself so I don’t overthink how much I look forward to seeing her.

The first time, I’d asked her out under some stupid excuse about wanting a “quiet evening” after training. I remember standing outside her building, pretending not to check my reflection in the car window. She opened the door with that bright, surprised smile like she wasn’t expecting me to actually show up, and something in my chest tightened. We walked down to the harbour and grabbed ice cream even though it was cold, talking about ridiculous things - her childhood anecdotes, my terrible cooking. I kept noticing the way she listened, like every word mattered. I wasn’t used to that.

Our second date wasn’t supposed to be a date at all. I’d texted her because the sunset looked nice and she replied, come watch it with me then. So I drove over. She sat cross-legged on the hood of my car, hair blowing into her face, laughing while the wind made her eyes water. I remember thinking, shit, I could get used to this. Something soft settled inside me when she leaned lightly against my shoulder, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

After that, it became easy. Too easy, maybe. Little routines forming without either of us naming them. She’d show up to mine with those pastries she knows I like, claiming she “accidentally bought extra,” and we’d end up sitting on the floor in my living room, music low, her feet tucked under my leg. Sometimes we’d go out for dinner, but more often we stayed in - me pretending I can cook, her teasing me while she fixes everything I ruin. I like hearing her laugh in my kitchen. I like how she hums when she concentrates. I like..her. More than I should admit out loud.

But the best moments are the spontaneous ones, the ones that feel almost stolen. Like when she texts me 'you awake?' at 11 pm and ten minutes later she’s perched on my balcony railing, wearing an oversized hoodie and holding two mugs of tea. Or when I swing by her place after a long day, exhausted, and she wordlessly pulls me onto her couch, letting me bury my face in her neck while she strokes my hair. Those evenings blur together in my mind - low lights, soft touches, shared warmth, the kind of quiet that makes me forget everything outside these walls.

And now we’re in that strange almost-phase. Not officially together, but not..not together either. She sends me pictures of her day. I buy her snacks when I see them in the store because “they reminded me of you.” She steals my hoodies. I pretend not to notice how often she stays over. My friends definitely know something’s going on, and hers probably do too. Neither of us says the word relationship, but every time her hand finds mine, it feels less like an accident.

Tonight we’re at her place, sitting on the floor with a half-finished puzzle between us. She’s rambling about something that happened at work, animated and beautiful and so real, and I’m barely pretending to focus on the puzzle pieces. I’m watching her hands move, the crease between her eyebrows when she concentrates, the smile she tries to hide when she catches me staring.

I realise it then - quietly, suddenly, like a soft click inside my ribs.

I don’t just like her. I’m starting to fall for her.