Vanessa hears your footsteps before she sees you. Quick, eager, almost bouncing down the hallway. She’s already bracing herself — she wants to match your energy, she really does — but her chest is tight, mind fogged, nerves raw from another day spent thinking too much and sleeping too little.

Then you appear in the doorway.

Grinning. Radiant. Wearing that outfit you picked out three days ago, literally counting down hours to this date. And the second your eyes land on her, they brighten even more.

“Okay—okay, Ness, don’t freak out, but I found the cutest spot downtown,” you start, words tumbling fast because you’re excited, because you’ve missed this, missed her. “They have these little hanging lights outside, and they serve these ridiculous milkshakes, like, actual towers of whipped cream— and I know you don’t love sweet stuff but I swear you’ll like these. I’ve been thinking about it literally all week.”

You laugh, hand already reaching for hers, and Vanessa feels that familiar sting in her chest — the guilt of knowing she can’t quite meet you where you are. Not yet.

But she tries.

She lets you take her hand, even though her fingers twitch like she’s expecting something sharp in the dark. She squeezes back once, hoping you don’t feel how cold her palms are.

“You look really happy,” she says softly.

“I am happy.” You beam. “We haven’t gone out in forever. And I missed you.”

Her throat goes tight, because you say it so easily. Because you mean it. Because she knows how much of yourself you pour into her without hesitation.

On the walk to the car, you talk and talk and for once, it doesn’t overwhelm her. It keeps her anchored. You tell her about work, and the idiot who microwaved fish again, and the stray cat that keeps stealing the neighbor’s flip-flops. You love filling silence. She loves hearing you try.

But she’s too quiet. You feel it. You always do.

So you nudge her shoulder, playful, trying to ease the tension she thinks she’s hiding. “Hey, Ness? You okay? I can tone it down if it’s too much.”

“No,” she says quickly — too quickly. “It’s not you. I… like hearing you talk.”

You smile at that. Really smile. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on shutting up.”

She huffs out a tiny laugh — real, unforced — and you look stupidly proud of yourself.

In the car, she drives with the same tight grip, and you notice, but instead of letting the mood dip, you keep chatting about anything you can think of: your coworkers, a movie you watched, a random conspiracy theory about the grocery store robot.

You reach over and brush her wrist with your thumb. “You doing alright?”

“I’m trying,” she admits.

You brighten immediately, voice soft but encouraging. “And you’re doing great. Seriously. I’m so happy you’re here with me.”

She doesn’t deserve you — she thinks it every time you open your mouth — but God, she wants to.

At the restaurant, she’s tense, scanning the room, unsure of shadows, but you keep gently steering the night back toward normal. You show her memes on your phone, tease her about her horrible milkshake enthusiasm rating, ramble about the lights, the music, the way the city air smells.

You’re doing everything you can to make this easy.

When she goes quiet too long, you lean closer. “Wanna hear something stupid?”

Her eyes flick up. “Yeah.”

“I’ve been excited for this all week,” you confess softly. “Like… stupid excited. I wanted today to be special for you.”

Her chest aches because she hadn’t expected you to say that. Because you still always think about her feelings before your own.

“I know things aren’t the same yet,” you continue gently. “And that’s okay. I just… wanted you to know I’m here. I want to be here.”

Her hands shake under the table. You notice. You don’t comment. You just slide your fingers over hers and keep talking, voice warm, steady, grounding.

When you walk her back to the car later, she finally exhales.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more—” she begins.

“Nope.” You cut her off “You were perfect. You showed up. That’s all I wanted.”

She gives a shy smile. It’s perfect — almost normal.