Page 63 of Ashen Souls

Heat crept into my cheeks. “I’m deciding.”

“You’re stalling.”

I shut the menu. “Fine, maybe I am.”

He didn't try to hide his satisfaction. “Then I stand by my recommendation.”

The waiter returned with our wine. Ethan picked up his glass, his posture settling into something less formal, and the fluidity was contagious. The tight, careful script in my head unraveled into an easy back-and-forth that felt unexpectedly natural. We talked about books that had ruined us, about terrible films we secretly loved, about the strange intimacy of teaching and the even stranger vulnerability of learning.

“At some point,” he said, leaning back into his chair, “you realize you can’t hide behind being competent forever.”

I tilted my head. “Is that a confession?”

“Maybe.” He took a slow sip of his wine, watching me closely over the rim of the glass. “Is it working?”

A laugh slipped out of me. “A little.”

When the food arrived, he hadn’t been exaggerating: the chicken was absurdly good, crisp and fragrant.

Halfway through the meal, we both reached for our glasses at the same time. Our fingers touched.

He didn’t pull away immediately.

Neither did I.

“You get quiet when you’re thinking,” he said softly.

“So do you.”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I’m usually thinking about what not to say.”

“And tonight?”

His eyes flicked to my mouth, then lifted again.

“Tonight… I’m failing.”

Neither of us spoke.

The candlelight quivered. The table suddenly felt much smaller than it had a minute ago.

I took a slow breath.

Then the waiter appeared beside us with the check, breaking the moment as neatly as if he’d planned it.

“Perfect timing,” Ethan muttered, though his focus remained heavy, his jaw tight.

He paid the check despite my protests, ignoring the pointed look I gave him. When we finally stood, it felt like surfacing from somewhere warm.

Outside, the air had cooled, the streetlights haloed with mist. We walked close: not touching, but near enough that I could feel the steady heat of him against the chill.

My building came into view too soon.

At the door we slowed, then stopped. The silence between us thickened, carrying the weight of shared laughter and half-finished thoughts. I waited for him to step closer.

“Thank you. For spending my day off with me.”

I searched his face for something, permission, maybe. Or intention. “I had a good time.”