I spot you before you see me, you're standing on the sidewalk outside the bar, arms folded, pretending you’re fine with the cold even though you never are. Classic. We’ve been…whatever we are…for a few months now. Not a couple, not casual, not defined. A rhythm, I guess. I keep telling myself I like it that way. Freedom and all that. Truth is, I’m circling you like some bloke too proud to admit he’s hooked.

I pull the car up to the curb and roll the window down. “You look like you’re waiting for a taxi that’s never coming.”

You raise your brows, that small smile you get when you’re surprised but trying not to show it. I shouldn’t know you that well already, but I do. You’re a columnist, always writing some clever angle on love in this city, pretending you’re only observing it, not living it. And I’m the guy who insists he doesn’t do complicated relationships, while doing exactly that with you.

“Come on,” I say. “Get in. I’ll take you home.”

You hesitate for half a second, the way you always do, like you’re checking if I’m going to vanish tomorrow. Fair question. My track record isn’t great. I built my career early, made too much money too young, learned how to leave situations before they get messy. But you get in anyway, like you always do, and that tiny bit of trust hits me harder than it should.

The door shuts. The car feels smaller instantly. “Long night?” I ask as I pull into traffic. You nod, and I can tell it’s been one of those evenings where your friends grilled you about me again. They don’t understand us. Maybe we don’t either.

You lean your head against the window, city lights sliding across your face. I shouldn’t stare, but I do. There’s something about you, maybe it’s the way you’re both soft and sharp at the same time, or the way you look at me like you’re trying to figure out what page of the story we’re on. “Y’know,” I say, keeping my tone light so I don’t scare myself, “you could call me when you need a ride. I don’t mind.”

You glance at me. It’s quick, but enough. I can feel the question behind it; 'What are we doing, Harry?' I never have the right answer. I only ever have the impulse to keep you close without promising anything I’m not sure I can give.

We hit a red light. I drum my fingers on the wheel. “I like seeing you,” slips out before I can filter it. Honest, simple. Too simple for the reputation I’ve earned. And maybe that’s the point. Around you, I talk like a man who’s not hiding anything. Your breath catches just slightly. I notice everything about you — every shift, every silence. I shouldn’t, but I do.

When we reach your street, I pull over and leave the engine running. You don’t move right away. Neither do I. There’s a quiet between us that feels like a hallway leading somewhere I’m not sure I’m brave enough to walk. I clear my throat. “Look… if this thing between us ever feels like too much, or not enough, you can tell me. I’m…trying.” The words feel unfamiliar, like I borrowed them from a better man. “Trying to not mess this up.”