Pamela leaned in, tossing her words right at me with that knowing grin: "This weekend is giving all the vibes you've been missing for ages."
And honestly? I couldn't even argue with her. The glow was written all over me—I was practically radiating. Since Friday, the weekend has been dishing out pure magic, and I've soaked up every bit of it.
The credit? Well, that goes partly to Pamela for dragging me to this couples' retreat, but mostly to Harry. Funny thing is, I wasn't even planning to bring a date. I had resigned myself to showing up solo, smiling through it all, until Harry appeared—unexpected, yet perfectly timed. Maybe he didn't come for the retreat, but he sure ended up being the sweetest surprise. My date. My calm in the buzz. Honestly, what more could I have asked for?
Brunch was a simple spread—crispy fries and a glass of juice—comfort food at its finest. Earlier, I'd settled for the Airbnb's breakfast tray: oats topped with fresh fruit, light and wholesome. I'm not much of an eater anyway, unlike Pamela, who could devour three full plates and still look like she's never wrestled with calories in her life. Life isn't fair.
"Tell me, my friend, do you like him?" Pamela asked, poking her nose right into my business again. Typical. I could already see where this conversation was headed, and honestly, there was no point denying it this time. I figured I'd better come clean before her endless questions suffocated me.
I felt like a teenager caught sneaking in past curfew, fumbling for excuses. "Well... I can't exactly say I don't like him, but I also wouldn't say I do. Let's just say I'm still somewhere in the middle—you know, we only just met," I confessed.
Of course, Pamela didn't stop there. She went on and on, reminding me how long I've been single and declaring it a crime if I dared show up to her wedding still unattached. She even swore she'd rig her bouquet toss so I'd be the one to catch it—just so I'd finally have a man, preferably Harry, to stand beside me.
Never have I mistaken her persistence for pressure. Pamela is my fiercest protector. She's the friend who's had my back in ways that go far beyond relationships —finding me clients at work when I was struggling, defending me when he left, and reminding me, over and over again, of my worth. So when she pushes, it's never to make me feel less. It's because she believes I deserve more.
I stayed quiet, waiting for the part I knew was coming: her trademark motherly advice. And she didn't disappoint.
"I'm not saying give your heart to someone who doesn't deserve it," she said, soft but firm. "I'm saying that while you're in this 'let's see how it goes' phase, don't slack off so much that you lose something real. I know your past left scars, and doubt creeps in when you least expect it, but don't let that stop you from building what could be beautiful."
I snapped my fingers in approval, grinning. "Preach, Mama Pam! That hit deep."
"Thank you," I added, hugging her tight. And before she could slip in another nudge about Harry, I quickly warned her, "But I'm still not catching that bouquet at your wedding!"
"Just try me and see" she warned sternly in a sweet voice, heading back to her room.
...
The evening pulsed with life—the chatter of strangers, the buttery perfume of popcorn hanging thick in the air, and neon lights flickering like restless fireflies above the cinema doors. Posters for the latest blockbusters lined the walls, each one promising adventure, romance, or danger, yet none of them felt half as exciting as the moment unfolding right in front of me.
I stopped at the entrance, ticket in hand, letting the buzz wash over me. For a brief second, I was simply another face in the crowd, waiting for two hours of escape into someone else's story. But then—
There he was.
Harry.
Leaning casually against the glass doors, like the universe had pressed pause just for him. In his hand, a single flower—unassuming, yet impossibly perfect. The second our eyes met, his boyish grin spread across his face, and just like that, the neon lights dimmed, the noise faded, and the only scene worth watching was this one.
"Thought I'd bring something better than popcorn to brighten your night," he teased, holding the flower out to me.
I shook my head, laughter bubbling out before I could stop it. Still, my fingers lingered on the stem as I took it, my heart doing that ridiculous flutter it hadn't attempted in years. In that instant, the movie posters, the chatter, the rush of people—they all blurred into the background. The story had already begun, and it was ours.
We slipped inside, side by side, the warmth of his presence matching the glow of the lights trailing behind us. The smell of buttered popcorn wrapped around us like a cozy blanket. Harry nudged me toward the concession stand, his eyes glinting with playful challenge.
"Your choice. Anything you want. Even the overpriced nachos."
I arched an eyebrow. "Even the jumbo popcorn drowned in extra butter?"
He sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "If that's the ransom for your company tonight, then yes—even that."
Our laughter rang out, easy and unguarded, the kind that makes strangers glance over, curious about the joke they'll never get. With snacks in hand, we drifted toward the theater's dimly lit hall. The screen hadn't even flickered to life yet, but deep down, I already knew—no movie tonight could compete with the story unfolding between us.
...
The theater was dim, the air cool with the faint hum of the projector warming up. People shuffled to their seats, balancing buckets of popcorn and sodas like precious treasures. Harry and I slid into our row, our snacks nestled between us, the seats squeaking softly as we settled in.
For a moment, we sat there in a comfortable hush, the glow of the pre-show ads flickering across his face. He leaned a little closer, his shoulder brushing mine—light, casual, but enough to send a small spark racing down my arm.
"Best seat in the house," he murmured, eyes on the screen.
I tilted my head, smirking. "Really? I thought you chose it because it's next to me."
He laughed softly, that low, easy sound that felt like it belonged only to me. "Well... there's that."
The movie previews rolled on, loud and dramatic, but somehow his presence felt louder. My hand rested on the armrest, and without warning, his fingers brushed mine—hesitant at first, then certain, curling around them. My heart tripped over itself, completely ignoring the booming explosions on-screen.
I turned toward him, ready to tease again, but the look in his eyes stopped me cold. It wasn't rehearsed, wasn't forced—it was simple, unguarded, and it said everything without a single word: this moment matters.
Before doubt could sneak in, he leaned closer. Softly. Carefully. And then his lips found mine. Just a quick, sweet kiss—gentle enough to leave me breathless, powerful enough to make me forget the popcorn entirely.
We pulled back in unison, grins spreading like we'd just gotten away with a secret.
"Looks like the movie's already off to a good start," Harry murmured, a sly sparkle in his eyes, the corner of his lips curled in mischief.
I couldn't help it—I laughed, the sound spilling out too quickly, my cheeks warming as though the spotlight had turned on me instead of the screen. My fingers sought his, clutching them with a mix of shyness and thrill. And when the theater finally sank into darkness, the screen alive with silver light, I knew something undeniable: whatever story those actors were about to tell, it could never outshine the one unfolding quietly between us—wordless, fragile, and yet powerful, written one daring kiss at a time.
Maybe I've let myself get too comfortable. But don't hold it against me—I blame the exhaustion of a week that felt like climbing a mountain in worn shoes. Still, the ease I feel now has nothing to do with plush seats or chilled air. No, my comfort comes from Harry's shoulder, steady and unyielding, a resting place that feels more like home than any four walls could offer.
The irony? I've never been the type to drift off inside a cinema. If I wasn't fixated on the plot, I'd usually be locked in a silent battle with my own thoughts—deadlines, unfinished lists, another half-baked work plan drafted under the blue glow of my phone. That was me: restless, tangled up in tasks, treating rest like a guilty pleasure I hadn't earned.
Yet here I am, sinking into stillness, my defenses dissolving. Funny how a shoulder can feel like permission to let go, like an invitation into a peace I didn't even know I was craving.