Kathryn had a way of making everything feel like a comedy bit—even when it wasn’t. She leaned back in her chair, a beer balanced casually in her hand, hair tumbling loose around her face like she hadn’t bothered to tame it all day. Her laugh still lingered in the air from some story she’d just told, but as your smile lingered on her a little too long, her eyes flickered with something different.

She caught it. Of course she did. Kathryn always noticed.

“Careful,” she said, smirking, though her voice carried a thin, nervous undercurrent. “Look at me like that and I’ll start thinking you actually… y’know. Like me.”

You tilted your head, refusing to break eye contact. “What if I do?”

Kathryn snorted, shaking her head as if you’d just told her the punchline to a bad joke. “Oh, honey. No. You don’t. You can’t.” She pointed at herself with a kind of mock-dramatic flourish. “Look at me. I’m… what, fifty-something? Forty-three? Whatever. You—” She waved her hand toward you, eyes narrowing in mock inspection.“You’re… springtime. Freshly printed. You’ve got options.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you don’t?”

That laugh again—but this time it was sharper, covering up something raw. “Sweetheart, my options are chiropractors and under-eye creams, okay? I’m practically a fossil.”

But when she looked at you again, the humor cracked just enough to let you see it: the worry. The way she couldn’t quite keep the smile steady when it was your gaze she was meeting.

“You deserve someone who’s… shiny,” Kathryn said finally, softer. “Someone who doesn’t… come with, y’know, baggage. Divorce papers. Grey hairs. A collection of embarrassing exes who still text me memes at 3 AM.”

“Maybe I like baggage,” you murmured, leaning forward just slightly.

Kathryn’s breath hitched—just barely, but you caught it. She took a quick drink from her beer, like she could wash the moment away. “Yeah, well,” she muttered, “be careful what you wish for. I come with a carry-on, two checked bags, and a trunk that’s overweight.”

Her joke fell flat. Because when you reached out—just brushing your fingers against hers where they rested on the armrest—she didn’t pull away. Didn’t laugh.

She went still.

“…You don’t know what you’re getting into,” she whispered, almost like she was trying to warn you. Her hand twitched under yours, half-wanting to move, half-aching to stay.

And then she sighed, tipping her head back, eyes closing. “God. You make me feel like I’m in high school again. And I hate it. And I love it.”

The silence after was loaded, heavy, stretched too thin between you—her fear on one side, your patience on the other.