Saturday morning came wrapped in golden light and the sound of birds outside my window—annoyingly cheerful for how little sleep I got. I'd lain awake longer than I should have, replaying pieces of last night like a film I wasn't sure how to categorize. Drama? Romance? A quiet character study of a woman trying not to feel too much?
I padded into the kitchen, still in my robe, and made coffee. The scent filled the apartment, grounding me, as always. Maya's basket was still on the counter, half-emptied. I opened it properly this time—beneath the cookies were two tiny jars of homemade jam and a folded note.
"Thanks for making a space feel like a home. We're excited to be here—Maya & Ellie."
Ellie? A child, maybe. Or a partner. I felt a small tug of curiosity—and something else. That soft sense that my world was expanding, inch by inch, without my permission.
My phone buzzed.
Sean: Morning. No expectations, but if you're up for coffee later, I know a place with great views and even better cinnamon rolls.
I stared at the message longer than necessary.
I typed, deleted, typed again.
Sounds tempting. Give me an hour.
Sean: Perfect. I'll pick you up.
I set the phone down, then paused. Was I really doing this again? Letting him in—someone in?
I dressed more casually this time. A cream sweater, jeans, and boots. No performance, just me.
By the time Sean pulled up, I was waiting outside. He smiled when he saw me—not the flirty grin from last night, but something gentler. Real.
The café he chose overlooked a lake, the tables spaced out just enough to give everyone a pocket of peace. It wasn't crowded. We sat by a window. He ordered a black coffee; I went for a chai latte and, of course, the cinnamon roll.
"This is my bribe," he said, sliding the pastry toward me. "Every good conversation starts with sugar."
"You're not wrong," I said, pulling it apart carefully.
We talked again. This time slower. Softer. No business. No veiled assessments. He told me about the town he grew up in. How he hated running but did it anyway. How his mother still called him every Sunday at 10 a.m. without fail.
I told him about the first time I pitched a deal—and lost it. About how I started building my own routines, brick by brick, after Dad died. About the time I went to Florence alone and stayed in a room with a view just because a book once said I should.
The hours slipped by.
"You know," he said eventually, "you're not what I expected."
"I get that a lot," I said, smiling.
"And yet, here I am. Still wanting more of this."
It wasn't a declaration. Not a demand. Just a simple, steady offering.
I didn't say anything at first. Just looked out at the lake, the light dancing across the surface like it had something to say. I wasn't sure what it was yet. But I knew I didn't hate the feeling it stirred.
When we left, he walked beside me in silence for a while, then said, "I'll let you go about your day. But if you ever want company again, just say the word."
I nodded. "I might."
I watched him drive off, then turned back toward my building. As I passed Maya's door, it cracked open slightly.
"Hey," she said, stepping out, a little girl peeking from behind her leg.
"Hi," I said, surprised. "This must be Ellie."
Ellie gave a shy wave, then ducked behind Maya again.
"She's still settling in. We both are," Maya said. "But it's been nice here so far."
"I'm glad," I said, and meant it.
Back in my apartment, I made a mental note—pick up something small for Ellie. Something welcoming. Maybe a book.
I sat down with my laptop but didn't open it. Instead, I looked around at my space—quiet, orderly, safe.
And maybe, just maybe, ready for a little more noise.
Maybe ready for change.