Page 81 of This Life of Mine

“I’m not trying to pressure you if you aren’t ready for something like a…date,” he says carefully. “I want to avoid assuming I understand how you process things.”

“I get I tend to say I’m okay, a lot,” I respond. “I’m not the sort of woman who folds or disappears for days. I don’t wallow. I don’t numb myself with a gallon of ice cream.” I hesitate, choosing the words that seem true. “I get back up. I always have. I handle last night as though it were a normal night—because if I don’t, it becomes a thing that controls me.”

He holds my gaze, steady and respectful. “I won’t pressure you to have any emotions you’re not prepared to have,” he says. “But I also won’t mistake your composure for fragility. I see the difference in you.”

And somehow, being seen that clearly—without being questioned or corrected—provides its own kind of safety.

His mouth curves into a smile that isn’t guarded. “I’d love to have dinner with you,” he says.

Relief spreads warm in my chest.

“You know,” he elaborates, shifting his head a little, “instead of leaving the house to go out…what are your thoughts on me making dinner for you?”

I blink. “You cook?”

“I do,” he says, faintly amused. “And I’ve been told I’m decent at it.”

“Decent by whose standards?” I ask.

“People who lived to give feedback.”

I laugh. “That sounds…really nice.”

“Only if you’re up for it.”

“I am.” I smile.

“Do you mind cooking at my place? Staying in for a meal sounds perfect. I’m not really up for crowds or real clothes, for that matter.”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “A strong argument.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Your place. Comfortable and casual. That works for me.”

No hesitation, only easy acceptance.

“Tomorrow evening?” he asks.

“Tomorrow evening,” I confirm.

We exchange a glance—silent, firm, unhurried.

“Text me a time,” he says.

“I will,” I say.

He waits until I’m fully inside before he shuts the door. Once it’s locked, he heads back to his car. I sit there a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel, letting the reality of our exchange settle in.

Dinner. At my house. Tomorrow. A real date. And oddly, that thought doesn’t scare me.

Chapter twenty-five

Alex

Today is the first day in over seven weeks that Lina has taken off. She isn’t at the bakery.

It’s strange not being in her presence.

I’m at the Airbnb, surrounded by open files and half-finished reports, yet my attention keeps drifting to the live feed on the second monitor. Lina moves quietly through her house, cleaning. She dusts the shelves. Fluffs a pillow on the couch. Carries a basket of laundry down the hall. Ordinary moments, the kind most people would never give a second thought.