By my calculation, there should be about ten minutes left before the credits roll. Yet my mind is nowhere near the screen. Instead, it's a whirlpool of conflicting thoughts: Should I suggest another movie? Should we find a quiet bar where we can talk more, really talk? Or should I simply retreat home, wrap myself in solitude, and brace for what awaits tomorrow? The thought of Monday hovers like a dark cloud even though it's only Saturday night. Tomorrow is Sunday—a supposed day of rest—but the shadow of work already presses on me, shameless and insistent, barging into my peace like an uninvited stranger refusing to leave.
A sigh escapes me, long and heavy, as though my lungs conspired with my spirit to let the weight out. The sound must have betrayed me because Harry turns slightly, his voice low and tender:
"Are you okay?"
How did he catch that? Perhaps my sigh was so deep it carried a signal, an involuntary flare that lit up my unrest.
"Yes, I am," I answer quickly, my tone steady, as though by declaring it aloud I might convince myself too. His response isn't in words but in gesture: a gentle pat on my head, the kind you give when you want to say, I'm here, don't worry. It melts me instantly. I adore it, though it carries a strange irony—like I'm a child in his care. Still, it comforts me. It roots me. It whispers, You are loved, you are safe.
That realization brings warmth to my chest, spreading until my lips betray me with an unguarded grin. My mind races, unspooling questions I dare not ask aloud: Where has Harry been all my life? How could something so simple feel so right? My thoughts run wild, painting me in colors I didn't expect—I find myself slipping into the quiet instincts of a girlfriend. Wondering about his day, his meals, his rest, the small details of his clients and mine. It's absurdly tender, and yet it feels... inevitable.
A sudden snap jolts me back, shattering my reverie.
"The movie is over, ma'am. Or would you prefer to be locked in the cinema tonight?" His voice is playful, but his laugh is loud enough to make me shrink into my seat, startled. I blink rapidly, reality crashing in. The movie is over? I hadn't even noticed. Lord, what kind of embarrassment is this? My eyes widen, and for a moment I wonder if I've lost my grip entirely.
Trying to salvage dignity, I chuckle lightly, pressing my palm into his outstretched hand as I rise. "Oh, I just had a lot on my mind. I lost track of what was happening here."
He only smiled in reply—quiet, knowing. A smile that says more than words could.
"Would you want to try a restaurant around here? I know one of the best," Harry offered suddenly, his voice smooth yet casual, as though it were the most natural suggestion in the world.
For a moment, I froze. Was this fate? Or heaven leaning in to answer the silent tug in my heart? Just minutes ago, I had been sitting there restless, uneasy about what came next, dreading the thought of returning home to the same routine walls and the waiting shadow of Monday. But here it was—a chance to prolong the night, to linger in his company just a little longer. An extension of time with the man I had already, quietly, decided to give my heart to, even if no one had signed off on that truth yet.
"Yes, of course. Thank you for the offer, Harry." I leaned into the moment, teasing, "You really must have seen hunger written all over my face." My words carried playful exaggeration. The truth was, I wasn't particularly hungry; I was simply starving for more of him. For his laughter, for the easy comfort of his presence. Food would just be the excuse. Staying by his side—that was the meal I wanted to savor.
Just as we began making our way toward his car, my phone buzzed. A message from Pamela flashed on the screen, sharp and mischievous: "Make sure not to come back home tonight. See you tomorrow, lover girl."
My lips parted in surprise before curving into a helpless smile. I let out a loud "Uh!"—too loud, apparently—because Harry's head turned instantly, brows arched in curiosity. A ripple of panic ran through me. Could Pamela be watching me right now? Hiding in the shadows just to make her sarcasm sting louder? That girl was as adorable as she was disturbingly intuitive.
"You mind sharing?" Harry asked, dragging the words slowly, his eyes rolling in a flirty, almost mock-accusing way.
I waved it off with a chuckle, shaking my head. "No, it's nothing serious. Just Pamela being her usual... shenanigan-filled self." My tone was abrupt but lighthearted, the kind that says don't worry, no competition here.
He didn't press further, only slipped his hand into mine again as though that simple contact carried all the assurance we both needed. Together, we walked toward his car, our steps unhurried, synchronized in a rhythm neither of us had rehearsed.
The night was unusually calm. A softness lingered in the air, the kind that makes silence feel alive. Above us, the sky stretched endlessly, scattered with stars that seemed to burn brighter than usual, like they had gathered to witness us. Something about the heavens felt conspiratorial—as though even the sky itself had fallen in love tonight.
Harry's car felt different tonight—so different from the very first day I had booked him. Back then, it was just a ride, a service, a transaction. But now? The atmosphere was transformed. The interior wrapped itself around me with a cozy warmth, and the faint scent—clean, fresh, almost intoxicating—spoke volumes about him. I could safely conclude he was a man who cared about the little things, a man who carried cleanliness and charm like second skin.
But tonight, I wasn't a passenger hiring a driver. No, I was riding freely, with no destination tied to work, no deadlines hovering over my head. This was for fun. This was for me. For us. And that realization painted my thoughts in bright colors. So this is what it feels like when the story changes, I mused, suppressing a smile. Funny how life can flip its script in the most unexpected ways.
I sat beside him not as a client, but as though I were his girl—the girl I was slowly becoming, or perhaps already was in some unspoken way. The air between us was different, tender, alive.
The ride itself carried a silence, long and lingering. I wasn't sure why, but I convinced myself that Harry was simply giving me room to swim in my thoughts. And oh, what a flood of thoughts they were—childish little bursts of imagination that had me giggling quietly since he asked me to dinner. Why can't I just hide my emotions for once? I wondered, pressing my lips together in vain.
The silence wasn't empty, though. It was filled—with the soft hum of the engine, the quiet rhythm of the night passing by outside, and the tender melody of a love song spilling gently from the stereo. I let myself sink into it, let the music be the bridge between us, carrying all the words I hadn't yet found the courage to say.
For now, I decided, I would just enjoy the ride. The restaurant would bring its own conversation, its own unfolding of whatever this was becoming. But here, in this moment, with the night cradling us and the music weaving its spell, I felt the comfort of something precious taking root.
...
Harry's car slowed into the lot of a quiet, tastefully lit restaurant tucked between rows of softly glowing street lamps. It wasn't the flashy, loud kind of place that demanded attention—it was subtle, elegant, the sort of spot you stumble upon and instantly feel like it's a secret you're lucky to know.
As he parked and turned off the engine, I caught myself studying him in the dim light—the way his fingers rested confidently on the steering wheel, the quiet calm etched in his expression. A small, ridiculous thought crossed my mind: how can a man make silence look so good?
"Ready?" he asked, breaking the spell as he glanced my way.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, perhaps too quickly, fumbling with my seatbelt. My eagerness betrayed me, but he only smiled as though he'd caught me red-handed and decided to let me go free.
We walked in together, hand brushing against hand until he laced his fingers with mine—a casual, yet deliberate gesture that sent a ripple down my spine. Inside, the restaurant was everything I didn't know I needed: warm lighting that kissed the wooden tables, a faint aroma of spices and fresh bread dancing in the air, and soft jazz humming in the background like a conversation between old lovers.
The host led us to a corner table, secluded enough to make it feel like we had been placed in our own little world. As I slid into my seat across from him, I felt the shift again—the way ordinary moments with Harry somehow gained a glow.
Menus were placed before us, but honestly, I couldn't bring myself to care about food just yet. My attention was on him. The way he leaned forward slightly, resting an elbow on the table as though to close the distance between us. The way his eyes caught the candlelight and held it like they had something to say.
"So," he began, voice steady but carrying a thread of curiosity, "tell me what's really been running through your mind tonight. You've been giggling, sighing, smiling at nothing... Don't tell me that's just Pamela's shenanigans again."
I laughed, heat rushing to my cheeks, realizing how exposed I must have been. "Maybe I've just been... enjoying the company," I said carefully, treading the thin line between honesty and restraint. "And maybe I'm not as good at hiding my feelings as I thought."
His lips curved into that knowing smile again—the one that always seemed to say I see you, more than you realize.
The waiter arrived just then, giving me a moment to breathe as we ordered. When he left, Harry leaned back, still watching me like he was trying to memorize every expression. "You know," he said softly, "I like this version of you—the one who forgets about work and just... lives."
Something in me stilled at that. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was because he saw the very thing I'd been struggling with—letting go, even for a night.
The jazz swelled softly around us, the candlelight flickered, and I realized with a start that I was no longer worried about Monday. Tonight, all I wanted was this table, this laughter, this man across from me.
We ate mostly in silence, but it wasn't the kind of silence that feels heavy or awkward. It was soft, almost sacred, stitched together with fleeting glances and secret smiles. Every time our eyes met, it was as though we were quietly reassuring each other: I see you. I'm safe with you.
Harry placed his cutlery down with deliberate grace, then dabbed at his lips with the napkin in a way that revealed so much about him—his care, his gentleness, his sense of order. Something about the small act gave me an unshakable feeling that I was sitting across from a man who could be trusted with far more than a dinner conversation.
I could tell he was about to speak; there was a shift in his posture, a light in his eyes. Not wanting to appear too eager, I set my fork down as well, pretending my meal was done, though I had barely taken three bites.
I tilted my head and teased, "Would you also mind to share?"
He smiled at me then—a calm, measured smile that looked as if he was weighing not just his words, but the perfect moment to release them. And then, softly, he asked, "Okay... should we count this as our day one?"
The words hit me like a spark on dry wood. I nearly choked on my drink, not out of ignorance, but out of disbelief that the question had come tonight. I had always imagined it would happen someday—Harry asking me to define what was already blooming between us—but I hadn't thought that this night would carry such weight. My plan had been simple: enjoy his company, laugh, perhaps let the night end with a hug that lingered a heartbeat too long. But now, here he was, opening the door to something more—an us that existed beyond stolen glances and unspoken longings.
"Uh, Harry..." I began, my heart racing faster than my thoughts could keep up. "Are you being serious right now? Today... as our day one?"
Before he could answer, my phone buzzed loudly against the table, shattering the moment like a stone thrown into still water. A notification glowed on my screen. Out of habit, I glanced at it—and froze. My entire face must have betrayed the shock, because Harry's brow furrowed almost instantly.
"Would you mind sharing this time?" he asked, his tone gentle, but laced with curiosity.
For reasons I couldn't explain—not even to myself—I didn't hesitate. Almost instinctively, I slid the phone across the table to him, surrendering the little device as though it were a piece of myself.
Harry read the message, exhaled deeply, and then—surprisingly—smiled. Not the nervous, forced kind, but a calm, steady smile. One that seemed to say, This doesn't scare me. It's not bigger than us.
And for a fleeting moment, I believed him.