Khloe
The restaurant Travis chose was warm and low-lit — the kind of place with soft jazz humming in the background and flickering candles on every table. Not too fancy, not too casual. Just enough to say I've been thinking about this. I want it to matter.
It wasn't the kind of spot where people stumbled in after work; it was intentional, curated. A place for conversations that wanted to be remembered.
When I walked in, Travis was already on his feet, tall and broad-shouldered, waving me over with that familiar grin. He pulled out my chair like a gentleman — a small, practiced gesture, but it felt genuine coming from him.
"You look incredible," he said simply, his voice low and certain, no trace of hesitation.
I smiled, smoothing the skirt of my dress as I sat. "You clean up well yourself."
His grin widened. "I had to try. Couldn't show up looking like college Travis with bad sneakers and wrinkled shirts."
The memory made me laugh, and for a moment, the years between us dissolved.
Once we ordered — pasta for me, steak for him — conversation flowed easily, the way it always had. Travis had that effect. He made people relax, made them feel like they could say anything without judgment. That was one of the things I'd always liked about him. He didn't force; he invited.
"I almost didn't recognize you in that office," he said, leaning on one elbow across the table. His eyes flickered with curiosity. "You've grown into someone… sharp. Focused. Like you're meant to be there."
I gave a soft laugh, shaking my head. "You mean you thought I'd still be doodling flowers in notebooks?"
"Honestly? Yes." His eyes glinted with mischief. "You used to draw sunflowers on every spare inch of your paper. It was your trademark. But now…" He tilted his head. "Now you're the one running the room."
I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "Barely. Half the time I feel like I'm just trying to keep up."
"Don't downplay it." He pointed his fork at me as if punctuating the words. "You've always been the quiet storm type. People don't see you coming — until they're already caught in it."
The description startled me. Quiet storm. I rolled it over in my mind. It felt both flattering and dangerous.
I twirled my pasta, pretending interest in the swirl of noodles. "It hasn't been easy. Especially lately."
His eyes softened, cutting through the ambient candlelight. "Xavier?"
The sound of his name in Travis's mouth made something inside me jolt. I hesitated. "It's… confusing. I told him how I felt. He turned me down. But then his actions…" I trailed off, chewing my lip. "They say something else."
Travis muttered under his breath, "Classic emotionally unavailable man. They give just enough to keep you wondering, never enough to commit."
My head snapped up. "It's not that simple," I said quickly, almost defensive.
He noticed. His gaze sharpened. "You're defending him."
"No, I just—" I caught myself, blinking. Why was I defending Xavier? I set my fork down, forcing a deep breath. "I think he's afraid of what it could mean. And maybe… maybe I am too."
Travis leaned back, studying me for a long moment. Then he took a slow sip of his drink before setting it down with deliberate care.
"Well, I'm not afraid."
The words landed in the space between us like a stone dropped in water, rippling outward.
My eyes flicked up to meet his. He didn't say it with pressure, didn't lace it with expectation. It was just honesty. Quiet, unwavering honesty.
"I don't know where your head is," he continued gently. "Or your heart. And I'm not asking for anything huge tonight. But if there's even a part of you that's curious about where we could go… I'm here."
The weight of his words pressed against my chest, firm but not suffocating.
"I just want to be someone who shows up," he added. "No confusion. No mixed signals. Just real, steady showing up."
And for a moment, I wondered — what would life be like if I said yes?
Yes to something safe. Something certain. Something clear.
---
The waiter refilled our glasses, the clink of crystal breaking the silence. I reached for mine, needing something to ground me.
"Travis," I started carefully, "you've always been steady. Even in college, when everyone else was chaotic. You never… lost your center."
He shrugged, smiling almost shyly. "Maybe that's why people used to call me boring."
"Not boring," I corrected, shaking my head. "Reliable. And there's a difference."
His smile stretched. "Reliable isn't flashy, though. Reliable doesn't get the girl in the movies."
"Maybe that's because movies don't know what they're talking about."
The words slipped out before I could catch them, and Travis's grin widened like he'd won a secret victory.
We ate in companionable silence for a while, the jazz swelling around us. My pasta was rich and creamy, though I barely tasted it. My mind was too full, bouncing between memories of college days with Travis and stolen glances with Xavier in glass-walled offices.
Travis broke the silence first. "You ever think about how different life would've been if we'd tried back then?"
I startled. "You mean… us?"
"Yeah." He chuckled. "I used to want to ask you out, you know. But you were always so… untouchable. Like you were in your own orbit."
I blinked at him, stunned. "Untouchable? Me?"
He nodded, cutting into his steak. "Yeah. You didn't even realize it, but you carried yourself like someone who deserved more than casual flings. Like you were waiting for the right thing."
Heat prickled across my skin. "And now?"
"And now," he said, looking at me with unflinching steadiness, "I still think that. Maybe even more."
I exhaled, staring at the flicker of the candle between us.
Why did safety suddenly feel just as terrifying as risk?
---
When dessert came — chocolate mousse to share — Travis pushed the plate toward me first. "Ladies first. But just so you know, I'm stealing at least three bites."
I laughed, the sound breaking some of the tension. We traded spoonfuls, teasing about who got the bigger bite, falling into an easy rhythm that felt so natural it scared me.
Because with Xavier, everything felt electric — sharp, unpredictable, like standing too close to a live wire. With Travis, it felt… steady. Like sitting on a porch in summer, watching the world move at its own pace.
And I didn't know which one I wanted more.
Halfway through dessert, Travis's hand brushed mine when we both reached for the spoon. The contact was brief, but it sent a shiver up my arm.
He paused, eyes flicking to mine. "Sorry."
But he didn't pull back right away.
I didn't either.
For a second, the restaurant faded away. No jazz, no candles, no clinking glasses. Just the weight of possibility between us.
Then I pulled my hand back, tucking it into my lap.
Travis didn't push. He just gave me that same steady look, a half-smile curving his lips. "No rush."
---
After dinner, he walked me outside, the night air cool against my skin. The city buzzed around us — cars, laughter, neon lights — but Travis felt like an anchor beside me.
He held the door open as I stepped out, then shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking back slightly on his heels. "So."
"So." I echoed, smiling faintly.
"I meant what I said," he told me. "I don't know where this goes. But I'd like to find out — if you'll let me."
The sincerity in his voice nearly unraveled me.
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly tight. "I… don't want to hurt you."
He shook his head. "That's not on you. That's the risk I take. I'd rather risk it than always wonder."
For a heartbeat, I couldn't breathe.
Then a car horn blared down the street, breaking the moment.
Travis chuckled softly. "I'll walk you to your car."
And he did. Quiet, unassuming, steady to the very last step.
---
Later, alone in my apartment, I sat on the edge of my bed staring at the sunflower keychain still tucked in my purse.
Travis's words echoed in my mind. I just want to be someone who shows up.
And Xavier's silence pressed in just as loudly.
I didn't know which one hurt more — the confusion of being wanted but denied, or the clarity of being offered something I wasn't sure I could take.
But as I lay back, staring at the ceiling, I realized something.
Clarity wasn't the same as certainty.
And distractions had a way of revealing what you couldn't admit out loud.