#we stayed

He opens the passenger door. But you don’t move to get in. The parking lot is quiet around you. Wind is moving softly through the trees. The distant creak of branches. A car door is closing somewhere farther down the lot. And the charged silence standing between you. You lean one shoulder against the frame of the open door, still catching your breath from more than the hike. He stands close. Close enough that if either of you moved an inch, the decision would be made for you.

“You look very pleased with yourself,” you say.

His brow lifts slightly. “About what?”

“The overlook.”

 A faint pause.

“I stand by my decision.”

You laugh under your breath. “Of course you do.” 

A small shift touches his mouth. Not quite a smile. Worse. Because now you know what he looks like when he’s pleased with himself. You step closer.

“You planned this whole day just to impress me.”

“No,” he says calmly. Then, after a beat, “I planned it because I wanted to spend time with you.”

The honesty steals every clever response you had. You search his face. No performance. No teasing now. Just truth. So you do the only thing that makes sense.

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him. The sound he makes is low and brief, surprised only for a second before one hand slides to your waist and the other braces on the car above your shoulder. He kisses you back immediately. Deeper than before. Warmer. The kind of kiss that feels like it belongs to a day already in progress, not a moment stolen from it.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt. His thumb presses once into your side.

When he pulls back, it’s only far enough to look at you. “That seemed decisive.”

You smile, breathless. “You bring it out in me.”

Something flashes in his expression. Heat. Approval. Maybe both. 

Then he straightens slightly, opens the passenger door wider, and gestures inside.

“Lunch.”

You laugh and slide into the seat. “Yes, doctor.”

“I’m off duty.”

“Tragic.” You reply. He closes the door on the sound of your laughter.

The drive is easier now. No first-date nerves. No wondering. Just the low hum of the road, sunlight moving across the dashboard, and the occasional glance that says more than conversation needs to. He takes you to a small lakeside café with a wide wooden patio and mismatched planters full of late-season flowers. The air smells like grilled bread and coffee.

You choose a table near the railing. From here, the lake throws light back in silver flashes.

He waits until you sit before taking the chair across from you. Of course he does.

You study the menu for a moment. Then lower it. “What were you like before all this?”

His eyes lift to yours. “All this?”

“The hospital. The military. The version of you that schedules dates with military precision.”

A pause. Then the corner of his mouth shifts.

“Less interesting.”

“I doubt that.”

He looks out toward the lake. For a second, you think he might deflect. 

Instead,  “I was louder.” 

That surprises you enough to show. “Louder?”

“I laughed more. Talked more. Had significantly worse judgment.”

You grin. “I’d pay money to meet that version of you.”

“He was overrated.” He smiles back. 

“I don’t believe that either.”

The server arrives and saves him from having to answer. You order a sandwich and fries to share. He quickly orders for himself, then waits until the server leaves before speaking again. “What about you?”

You blink. “What about me?”

“What were you like before medicine became your whole schedule?”

The question lands more gently than expected. You look down at your hands, then back up.

“Messier.”

His expression doesn’t change. But his attention sharpens. “How?”

You lean back in your chair. “I cared about everyone all the time. Too much. I tried to fix things that weren’t mine to fix.” A breeze moves across the patio. The lake shifts in the sunlight.

“And now?” he asks.

“Now I’m better at boundaries.”

His gaze flicks briefly to your mouth. “Debatable.”

You laugh so suddenly you nearly choke on air. “That was rude.”

“It was accurate.” The food arrives.

You eat, talk, steal fries from the center basket like you’ve done this for years instead of hours. Conversation moves easily. Music. Terrible patients. Childhood stories. Places you’ve never been. Places he wants to take you. That last one catches your attention. 

You set down your drink. “Places you want to take me?”

His expression remains maddeningly neutral. “I didn’t say that.”

“You did.” 

“I implied future options.”

You shake your head. “You are a deeply irritating man.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

You smile despite yourself.

Under the table, his foot brushes your ankle. Then stays. You glance up. Something warm and deeply satisfied moves through his expression. Not smug. Worse. Certain. The lake glitters beyond him. The afternoon stretches ahead, warm and open. And for the first time, being with him doesn’t feel like something impossible. It feels like something that could become part of your real life.

Lunch should feel like an ending. Instead, neither of you reaches for the check. The plates are nearly empty. The ice melted in your glass. The lake beyond the railing has shifted into afternoon shimmer, brighter now beneath the higher sun. But the space between you still feels occupied. Alive. You trace one fingertip through the condensation on your glass.

“So,” you say lightly, “is this where you send me home and call it restraint?”

His gaze lifts from his coffee. A faint pause. Then the corner of his mouth shifts. “That depends.”

You tilt your head. “On what?”

“How persuasive you intend to be.”

Heat flickers through you. You smile slowly. “Careful. That sounded like encouragement.”

“It was an assessment.”

You laugh softly. The server appears with the check. Jack reaches for it first. You reach for it at the same time. His hand lands over yours before either of you can stop it. Warm. Steady. Every nerve in your body seems to notice immediately.

“I can pay for my own lunch,” you say, quieter now.

“I know.” He doesn’t move his hand.

That somehow matters more than the words. You tilt your head.

“Are you ever going to let me pay for a meal?”

“No.” The answer comes without hesitation.

You laugh softly. “That’s very rigid of you.”

“It’s consistent.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll find a way to wear you down.”

For the first time in several seconds, something openly amused moves through his expression.

“Maybe, you’re already very good at it.”

 Heat blooms instantly through your chest. You stare at him. “That was dangerous.”

“I’m learning.” A flicker touches the corner of his mouth. Then he lifts his hand, takes the check, and slides a card into the folder with calm finality. You should protest more. You don’t. By the time you stand, the air has changed again. Softer. Fuller. The kind of shift that happens when time has been spent well. 

He walks beside you back through the café, hand settling lightly at the small of your back to guide you past a crowded table. The touch is practical. The heat it causes is not. Outside, the breeze off the lake is cooler now. You stop near the railing while he waits for the receipt. Boats move slowly across the water. Someone laughs farther down the boardwalk. The ordinary world continues around you. It feels strange that no one else knows yours has tilted. He rejoins you a moment later.

“Ready?” he asks.

You should say yes. Instead, “Do you want to be done already?”

The question slips out softer than intended. His expression changes. Subtle. But real.

“No.”

Your pulse skips.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. “I’m trying to be reasonable.”

“That sounds serious.” You murmur.

“It is.”

You study him. The breeze lifts loose strands near your braid. He reaches out and smooths one back behind your ear before dropping his hand. The tenderness of it nearly undoes you.

“You don’t have to be reasonable all the time,” you say quietly.

His eyes hold yours. “With you, that’s becoming difficult.”

Heat blooms low and steady. You glance toward the parking lot. “So what happens now?”

He follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“How much more time you’ll give me today.”

The words land somewhere deep. No arrogance. No assumption. Just a man asking plainly for more of something he already values.

You step closer until there’s barely any space left between you. “How much are you asking for?”

A beat. “All of it.”

Your breath catches. He must see it happen, because something warmer moves through his expression.

Then he adds, quieter, “Or whatever you’re willing to spare.”

You smile slowly. “That was almost smooth.”

“I’m adapting.”

You laugh and shake your head. Then, because it feels impossible not to, you reach for the front of his shirt and tug him closer. His hand finds your waist instantly. The kiss is slower than the ones before. No urgency. No breaking point. Just depth. The kind of kiss that says the day has already become something neither of you wants to end. When you pull back, your foreheads brush.

“So,” you murmur, still close enough to feel his breath, “what are you going to do with all that time?”

His thumb moves once against your side. “I thought I’d start with a drive.”

You laugh softly. “Very ambitious.”

“We have time.” He steps back only enough to take your hand. “Come on.” And when he leads you toward the parking lot, it doesn’t feel like being swept up. It feels like being chosen again.

He doesn’t turn toward the city. You notice immediately. The road out of the café curves left toward town. He takes the right. Tree-lined county highway stretching ahead in long ribbons of late afternoon light. 

You glance at him. “This isn’t the way back to the city.” 

“I know.” The answer is calm. Expected. Like he already assumed you’d notice and chose not to explain too soon.

You settle back into the seat, smiling to yourself. “Kidnapping feels bold for a second date.”

“It’s not kidnapping.”

You turn toward him. “No?”

“No.” His hands stay steady on the wheel. “You got in willingly.”

You laugh softly. “That is manipulative logic.”

“It’s accurate logic.”

The road opens beside a field gone golden yellow with autumn grass. Windows cracked just enough to let cool air move through the car. Music low. Something acoustic and warm in the background. You look out at the landscape sliding by. The farther you go, the quieter everything inside you becomes. He drives like he does everything else. Smoothly. Deliberately. No wasted motion. No need to prove anything. After a few miles, he turns onto a narrower road that winds through dense trees before opening onto a bluff overlooking the lake. He parks near an old wooden fence, weathered silver with age. Beyond it, water stretches wide and bright beneath the lowering sun. The surface catches light in long, shattered lines. It’s beautiful. Still. Private. You step out of the car slowly. The wind is cooler here. Cleaner. He comes around to stand beside you, not touching, just close enough that awareness sparks anyway.

“You come here too?” you ask.

“Sometimes.” The understatement of it makes you glance at him.

He’s looking out at the water. Not guarded exactly. But quieter than before. You move to the fence and rest your arms along the top rail. He joins you a moment later. For a while, neither of you speaks. The silence feels chosen.

Then, “After rehab, I used to drive out here.”

His voice is even. You turn your head slightly, but don’t interrupt. “It was easier than being home.”

The words land softly. No drama. No request for sympathy. Just truth.

“I didn’t know what to do with stillness back then,” he continues. “Or pain. Or time.” The wind moves across the lake below.

 You keep your voice gentle. “So you came here.”

“Yes.” He glances down once, then back to the horizon. “I liked places that asked nothing of me.”

Something in your chest tightens. Because you hear what lives underneath that sentence. How exhausted he must have been. How alone.

You shift closer until your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away.

“You don’t seem like someone who asks nothing of himself.”

A faint breath of amusement leaves him. “That was part of the problem.”

You smile sadly. The water glitters below. A gull cuts across the sky. He rests his forearms on the fence beside yours.

“For a long time,” he says, quieter now, “my life got very small.”

You wait.

“Work. Recovery. Routine. Repeat.” His jaw shifts once. The old tell. But he keeps going.

“It was manageable that way.”

You look at him fully now. “And now?”

His eyes meet yours. Now the answer matters.

“Now it isn’t enough.” The words move through you like warmth.

You don’t speak right away. You’re not sure you could. Because you know what he means. Or who. He watches your face carefully. As if giving you time to step back if you need to.

You don’t. Instead, you let some truth of your own rise.

“I understand making life small,” you say quietly.

His attention sharpens. You look back out at the water. “It feels safer when everything has edges. Roles. Responsibilities. Things you can control.” The admission costs more than you expected. You feel it in your throat. “I’ve spent a lot of time being what other people needed.”

A pause. “Sometimes I’m not sure who I am when no one needs anything.”

 The words hang there, more vulnerable than you intended. His hand finds yours on the fence. Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just certain.

 His fingers thread through yours slowly. “You don’t have to be useful to be wanted by me.”

The words move through you like something unfastening. You turn to him. He’s already looking at you. No pity. No fixing. Just presence. Your throat tightens unexpectedly. For a moment, you can’t think of anything clever enough to hide behind. So you don’t try.

You step closer and rest your forehead lightly against his shoulder. His free hand comes to your back without hesitation. Steady. Warm. And somehow that gentleness says even more. The sun lowers another inch. Gold deepening toward amber. You stay there for a moment longer than either of you needs. Neither of you seems interested in moving. Then, eventually, you lift your head. He looks down at you. Quietly. Like he’s seeing something important. You don’t give yourself time to overthink it. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Slow. Soft. The kind of kiss shaped more by gratitude than hunger. He answers immediately, one hand still warm at your back, the other lifting to your jaw. When he pulls away, it’s only far enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours.

Then he walks you back to the car, hand at your lower back over uneven ground, fingers lingering one second longer at the door.

The drive home is quieter. Not empty. Full. The kind of quiet that only exists after something true has been said. By the time he pulls up outside your building, dusk has settled blue across the street. Neither of you moves right away. You turn toward him. Today sits between you like something alive. You could thank him. You could say goodnight. You could wait for him to lead again.

Instead you ask, “Can I see you tomorrow?”

His eyes lift to yours instantly. Something like surprise flickers there. Then warmth.

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.

You smile. “Good.” You unbuckle and turn toward him fully. “You picked today,” you say. “Tomorrow is mine.” 

His brow lifts slightly. “Is that so?”

“Yes.” You lean closer, close enough to feel the pause in his breathing.

“I’m going to show you my favorite places.”

For the first time all day, he looks caught off guard. Not unsettled. Pleased.

Then you add, “And I’m picking you up.”

The reaction is immediate. Subtle to anyone else. Obvious to you. 

His jaw shifts. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

You smile sweetly. “It’s absolutely necessary.”

“I can drive,” He says, trying to close this matter simply with his tone.

“I’m aware.” Your smile broadens.

He studies you like you’ve become unexpectedly complicated.

“You hate this,” you say, delighted.

“I dislike inefficiency.”

“That is not what this is.” You defend lightly. 

“No?” He asks, quirking a brow.

“No.” You lean back against the seat, entirely too pleased with yourself. “It’s the principle of it.”

He exhales through his nose. A sound dangerously close to a laugh. “You don’t even like driving.”

 You stare at him. “How do you know that?”

“You’ve made three separate comments about preferring to be a passenger.” Traitorous memory.

You narrow your eyes. “Fine. I am, historically, a passenger princess.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Historically.”

“But that is irrelevant,” you continue. “Because tomorrow, I’m picking you up.”

He looks at you for a long moment. Measuring. Losing. Then, “This feels unnecessary.”

“It’s happening.” You say with finality.

A beat.

He sighs with theatrical resignation. “Fine.”

Victory blooms through you. You grin. “That sounded begrudging.”

“It was.”

You lean in and kiss him before he can reclaim any dignity. Slow. Warm. Satisfied. When you pull back, his hand catches lightly at your wrist, keeping you there one second longer.

“What time?” he asks, voice lower now.

You smile. “I’ll let you know.”

“That seems intentionally vague.”

“It’s a surprise.” You grin.  

He studies you for a beat. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.

“Dangerous.”

You open the door and step out into the cool evening. At the entrance, you turn back once.

He’s still watching you. Of course he is. You lift a hand.

“Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight.”

You head inside, your pulse unsteady, and tomorrow already taking shape.