Chapter 34 List of experiences
He presses his lips together, thinking. “It just feels like I’m supposed to want more. Bigger, louder things. Like I’m missing something.”
“Or....you’ve found things that fit you, and you’re letting the noise tell you they don’t count.” I counter, then add, “That fear of missing out is very convincing. It makes you believe life is happening somewhere else much brighter.”
His mouth quirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Still,” he says after a moment, “sometimes I’d like to do things. Even just once. Not because I want them to be my life, just.... for the experience.” He shifts in his seat. “But I don’t really have anyone to do them with.”
I don’t interrupt, I let him keep going.
“And I know you can do things alone. You don’t need people. I get that. I really do.” His fingers tighten around the stem of his glass. “But it’s not the same. Shared moments imprint differently. They linger longer.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding that thought in his chest for years and finally let it out. Then he looks at me, something open and unguarded in his expression. I watch him, trying not to let it show how much I actually understand. More than I’d like to admit. He reaches out and brushes the petals of the bouquet like he’s unaware he’s doing it....so tentative. Something about that small gesture twists my chest.
“Make a list,” I say, and I keep my tone light, but there’s an edge of insistence.
He looks at me, suspicion in his eyes. “A list of what?”
“Experiences,” I tell him. “Things you’ve wanted to do but put off because.... well, you didn’t have anyone to do them with. That’s less of an issue now. We can do them together.”
He scoffs, but there’s no real bite.
“I’m serious,” I add. “I’ll do the same.” I tilt my head, teasing. “Finally get around to that whole skydiving thing.”
I catch his gaze across the table and watch him lift his glass of wine, fingertips brushing the rim like he’s afraid to break it. He swirls it slowly, eyes fixed on the liquid, and I notice the way his lips part slightly as he mutters, almost to himself, “I shouldn’t even be drinking this.....”
I arch a brow. “Why not?” There’s a note of curiosity I can't disguise. He doesn’t answer. He just takes a careful sip, lets the warmth spread for a beat, and sets the glass back down. Then he glances at me like he’s testing the air. “What if I make a list and it’s full of things you don’t want to do?”
I lean back, realizing this is another one of those instances where he skims past something he's mentioned like I won't notice. I let it pass and say, “As long as I’m doing them with you, I can promise you I’ll be interested.”
His eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Even if some of them are ridiculous?”
I shrug, “Especially if they’re ridiculous.”
He watches me like he’s deciding whether to believe that or file it away as another one of my charming exaggerations.
“So,” I add, gesturing to the space between us, letting my voice stay light even as my attention sharpens, “don’t hold out on me. I mean it, If you’re going to make one, make it honest. Don’t edit or sanitize it. I’d hate to find out later you left something off because you didn’t think I’d be interested.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, like he’s caught off guard by the seriousness in my tone“Okay,” he murmurs, eyes darting to mine, “I’ll make one.”
His hand twitches slightly near his plate, subtle enough that I might’ve missed it if I weren’t already watching him too closely, almost as if he wants to reach out and touch me but isn’t sure he should. I let my eyes linger on him, tracing the curve of his jaw, the tilt of his head.
I don’t give him time to overthink it, I reach out first. Eyes never leaving his face as my fingers find his hand. I don’t grab, I just make the offer and wait.
There’s a beat, barely a breath, before he shifts, and then his hand settles into mine. The kind of contact that feels louder than it should. He exhales softly. “We met like four days ago.”
“I know,” I say, and I do.
He looks at me then, cautious, searching. “It doesn’t feel like four days.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Should we be worried about that?”
My thumb brushes lightly against his knuckles, just enough to remind him I’m still here. “Why?”
He shrugs, “Because things that feel this easy usually aren’t. Because—”
He stops himself, the sentence collapses inward like a door being gently but firmly shut. He shakes his head once, small and controlled. Defensive without being dramatic. Then he looks at me and pivots.
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
The question lands soft, but it’s another strategic sidestep. Part of me wants to call it out, to nudge him back toward the edge of what he was about to say. I can almost hear the rest of the sentence, hovering between us like unfinished music.
My fingers tighten around his hand before I can stop myself. I search his face for cracks....fear, maybe, or hesitation. What I find instead is restraint. Like he’s learned when to stop talking to protect himself.
I should push, I don’t. Something in me recognizes the moment for what it is, not a retreat, but a silent boundary. And boundaries deserve respect if you want to be invited past them later.
So I answer the question he chose.
“Whatever you want me to be doing,” because honestly, I don’t care which direction he pushes this.
He quirks an eyebrow. “So, would you like to go watch a movie?”
“At a theater?”
“No, at the DMV.... obviously, that’s where everyone goes to catch the latest blockbuster.”
I snort, snag a shrimp off my plate, and flick it at him. It hits his shoulder. The sound of him laughing makes my chest tighten in a way that’s stupidly satisfying. “Haven’t been to a theater since I was a teenager,” he confesses, shrugging as if that explains everything.
“I’m in. What do you want to watch?”
“Doesn’t matter.” His tone is casual, but his hand brushing mine betrays him. I let a grin curl, something a little conniving and slow. “Then maybe we try something outside our comfort zones. Horror?”
His expression is half amused, half wary. “Still trying to make me jump into your arms?”
I shrug, leaning just a fraction closer. “You can’t blame a guy for trying.”
I watch his fingers twitch against mine, the smallest pressures that feel like signals, like tiny promises.
“Maybe,” he murmurs finally, gaze dropping to our joined hands, “if you’re lucky, I’ll do it anyway.”