It's Saturday evening, six-thirty, and I'm standing on the curb outside a tapas place I've never been to, but have been meaning to try.

When I texted Megan to firm up our dinner plans—a text I tried very hard not to overthink—Megan said it was one of her favorite restaurants. It's also only a block from her new place.

Turns out we live on opposite sides of the same neighborhood. Which tracks, considering we both walk to the gym where we met.

It's too warm for a jacket, but I'm still in a long-sleeved collared shirt, untucked over dark denim. I tug at the hem like that might make it look more roguish, then I'm about to check the time—

—and catch a flash of blonde coming around the corner.

At first, I don't register that it's her.

But as she gets closer, I realize that it is. It's just... a different version.

Hair down. Makeup done. A low-cut floral dress that moves when she walks.

She looks—

Yeah. No other word for it.

Stunning.

Not that she isn't cute at the gym, all workout clothes and a sheen of sweat on her brow, but this? This is a whole different level.

This is knockout.

"Hey," I say, flashing a smile, suddenly feeling out of my league.

"Hey." She smiles back, teeth bright under glossy pink lips. Then she reaches out and casually squeezes my forearm. "Hope you weren't waiting long."

"W—what? No." My words tangle as I shake my head. "You're right on time."

"Oh good." She keeps her hand on my elbow as she turns toward the restaurant door. "Sometimes I feel like the closer a place is, the easier it is to show up late, you know?"

"Yeah," I say, even though I'm not sure I do.

I pull the door open for her, then follow her inside to the dimly lit hostess stand.

"Dylan, table for two."

The hostess gives us a practiced, customer-service smile I know way too well, then grabs two menus and leads us toward the back.

The tables are packed in tight, barely any space between them. I hesitate for half a second, calculating the angle, then squeeze past an older couple mid-conversation.

"Sorry—excuse me," I mutter, trying not to clip their wine glasses with an errant limb.

I slide onto the bench along the wall, exhaling quietly once I'm settled. My phone presses against my thigh. Richie's text still marked unread. The red notification bubble burning a hole in my pocket.

I don't take it out. Don't look at it. Don't let it distract me from being in the moment. Here. With Megan.

"So," Megan says as she slides effortlessly into her seat and picks up the menu, "what're you thinking?"

For half a second, I think she's caught me—like she somehow knows where my head just went. Then I realize she means food.

Obviously.

I pick up the menu and allow my eyes to scan down the long list of options of small plates, many with unfamiliar names and ingredients I'm only half-confident I can pronounce. "Honestly, I could eat everything here."

"It's tapas, so I assume we're splitting?" she says, eyes glancing up at me.

"Yes, of course." My eyes meet hers, and I can't help but smile. I'm on an easy-going date with a beautiful woman. This is exactly what I need.

She hums softly, her finger scrolling down the menu like it's a touch screen.

"Anything you're leaning toward?" I ask, attempting to sound casual.

"I should probably mention," she says, not looking up right away, "I've got a couple dietary restrictions."

"Oh," I say quickly. "No problem. What kind?"

"Gluten-free," she says, meeting my eyes again, "and I don't do dairy-heavy stuff. It just... doesn't agree with me."

"Got it," I nod immediately. "No problem."

It really isn't a big deal. Still, I start mentally crossing things out, recalculating options. I glance back down at the menu, adjusting my order. The toast is out. No cheese plate. No biggie.

"I usually just order for the table when it's like this," she adds, tone light, like she's mentioning the weather. "If that's okay?"

I pause for half a beat longer than I mean to.

It's not that I mind. It's just... unexpected.

"Yeah," I say, after a beat that I hope isn't too long. "Yeah, of course. That makes sense."

She smiles, like that settles something. "Cool."

"And for drinks," she adds, glancing up briefly, "we should just start with a pitcher of sangria."

"Sounds good." My response is automatic. I haven't actually looked at the single drink options yet. But sangria does make sense, right?

She turns slightly as the waiter approaches, already closing her menu with a small, decisive tap.

"Ready?" he asks.

Megan doesn't hesitate. "Yeah, hi. We'll start with a pitcher of red sangria. And for food—" she glances at me briefly, more out of courtesy than necessity, then continues, "we'll do patatas bravas, the blistered peppers, the marinated olives, and can you check if the grilled octopus is gluten-free? If it is, we'll add that too."

The waiter nods, jotting everything down.

I open my mouth like I might add something—maybe another dish, maybe a clarification, maybe just proof that I'm participating—but there's no opening left in the rhythm she's already established.

"And we're good for now," she finishes, handing over the menu.

"Perfect," the waiter says, taking mine as well. "I'll be right back with the sangria."

He walks off.

Megan leans back in her seat, folding her hands loosely on the table. "That should be enough food. If we're still hungry, we can always add more."

"Right," I say, realizing belatedly that I never actually got around to choosing anything.

Music hums just beneath the surface. It's vaguely Spanish, instrumental with a steady beat, loud enough to fill the quiet but not loud enough to hide it. The couple to our right leans in close over their wine glasses, their elbows nearly brushing mine every time they move. The tables are so close I can catch pieces of their conversation whether I want to or not.

Megan doesn't seem to notice.

"So," she says, leaning forward, eyes fixed on me, "how long have you been going to that gym?"

"A while," I say. "Couple years, I guess. Ever since I moved into my apartment after college."

"Mm." She tilts her head and checks me out. "Well, you can tell you've put in the work."

I huff out a quiet laugh, feeling my ears burn. I wonder if she knows I'm trans. If she can tell exactly how much work I've put into this physique. If she doesn't know, I need to work that detail in somehow before anything escalates. But not now. So I just smile and accept the compliment. "Thanks."

The sangria arrives, the waiter sets a glass in front of each of us before pouring. The scent of citrus hits first. Megan thanks him without breaking eye contact with me, then immediately lifts her glass.

"To... you finally trying this place," she says.

I lift mine to meet hers. "To you recommending it."

Our glasses clink softly.

She takes a sip, then sighs. "Okay, yeah. That's good."

"It is," I agree, taking a deeper drink. Letting the warmth of alcohol spread across my chest.

"So," she continues, setting her glass down, "I just moved here at the end of the school year. That's why I joined the gym—new routine, new neighborhood, all that."

"Oh, nice," I say. "Are you a student? Where'd you move from?"

"No, no, teacher. I moved back home after college. But I teach at a school here in the city. Had some money saved up and I wanted a shorter commute." She shrugs, like it's simple. "I just got professional status, so it seemed like good timing."

"What do you teach?" I ask.

"Second grade." Her eyes twinkle as she answers.

"Second grade," I repeat. "Those kids have a lot of energy."

She laughs. "Exactly. A shorter commute will help me keep my sanity."

"My best friend's a teacher," I say. The words come out automatically. I hope she still is my best friend. "Seventh grade ELA."

"Oh wow," Megan says, eyebrows lifting. "Brave woman."

"Yeah, Angie's—" I start, then keep going without thinking. "She loves it, though. She always has, like, ten stories a day. Kids saying ridiculous things, grading essays at midnight..."

I trail off slightly, realizing I've been talking about Angie for... longer than I've talked about myself.

Megan's still watching me, chin tipped into her hand now, expression curious.

"And you?" she asks. "What do you do when you're not at the gym?"

I blink, caught up for half a second. Because lately, all I've been doing is Richie.

"Uh, I'm trying to climb the corporate ladder," I answer, leaving out the fact that I'm barely one step above barista.

"Very vague," she says, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

I shrug, leaning back against the bench like that might make it sound more intentional. "It's a work in progress."

"Mm," she hums, like she's filing that away for later. "Mysterious."

"Or boring," I counter.

"We'll see," she says lightly.

There's a beat where the music swells just enough to fill the space between us. The couple next to us laughs at something—too loud, too close—and Megan glances over for half a second before leaning in again.

"I'm gonna run to the bathroom really quick," she says, already sliding out of her seat. "Don't let them bring all the food while I'm gone."

"I'll try my best," I say.

She smiles, quick and easy, then disappears into the narrow path between tables.

The second she's gone, the space shifts. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, my eyes dropping to the table, which is empty except for the sangria and two glasses, condensation gathering at the base.

And then, a buzz.

Low. Insistent. Against my thigh.

I freeze.

Could be anybody. Probably spam.

For a second, I just sit there, not reaching for it. Not confirming anything.

Another faint vibration.

"Don't," I mutter under my breath.

But Megan's not here. And the phone is already halfway out of my pocket before I can stop myself. The screen lights up in my hand.

DICK: I miss you. Can we hang out? We can discuss boundaries over takeout.

My chest tightens.

Not panic. Not exactly.

I stare at the message longer than I should, thumb hovering like there's a version of this where I respond. Right now. Where I say yes. Where I say anything.

Footsteps.

I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket so fast it almost slips from my grip.

When I look up, Megan's already there, sliding back into her seat across from me.

For half a second, her eyes flick down—toward my hands, my pocket, something.

Or maybe I just think they do.

"Miss me?" she asks, reaching for her glass.

"Yeah," I say, a little too quickly.

She smiles like she believes me.

But me? I'm not so sure.