Reagan has been your suitor for almost three months now. Everyone says he’s a great man—kind, steady, the kind you don’t run from. And maybe they’re right. He never raises his voice, always remembers the smallest things, and somehow always manages to find you when you least expect him.

Still... you haven’t given him an answer.

Not because of anything he’s done.

But because of everything you've been through.

Your past isn’t a story you can casually hand over across a coffee cup or a flower-wrapped date night. It’s bruised and heavy and loud in your chest, even when your lips stay sealed.

So when he walks in today, confident and calm like always, part of you braces for the way he disarms you without trying.

"If you say so." You smile, glancing down at your pink-painted nails before meeting his eyes again. You keep your tone light. Teasing. Safe. “What would you like?”

“A date.”

Your breath stutters.

Your stomach flips so hard it feels like the floor tilted beneath you.

“A… what?”

He grins, that familiar lopsided smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like it’s no big deal. Like he didn’t just drop a match on a pile of dry kindling.

“I think you heard me.”

Your brow arches, heat blooming in your chest like wildfire—like it did two nights ago when he brushed your hand without meaning to. Or maybe he did. You still can’t tell. And maybe that scares you even more.

“I did.”

“Fantastic,” he says smoothly, casually scanning the empty tables around you. “When do you get off work?”

You place your fingers on the counter, grounding yourself. “I appreciate the gesture, really. But… I have plans tonight.”

He leans in a little, voice quieter, more assured. “That’s right. You do.”

You tilt your head, confused.

He smiles again. “With me.”

He said as he gives you a wink.