The night after the rooftop lights, sleep became optional.

Emily lay in bed replaying everything—his smile, the way his voice softened when he said her name, how the city seemed to hold its breath for them. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. But it felt dangerously close to the edge of something that could change everything.

Across town, Ryan stared at the same skyline from his apartment window, the one he’d lit up for her. His cat Pascal yawned beside him. “Yeah, I know,” he said to the cat. “I’m in trouble.”

Pascal meowed like he’d known all along.

The next morning, Emily showed up late for her shift. Jess spotted her instantly. “Well, look who’s glowing like she found religion.”

“It’s called sleep deprivation,” Emily muttered, tying her apron.

“Sure. And my name’s Beyoncé.”

“Morning sarcasm? You okay?”

“Better question—are *you* okay? You look like a woman who almost got kissed.”

Emily froze mid-tie. “I hate that you’re observant.”

Jess grinned. “You love that I’m right.”

Emily rolled her eyes and busied herself with the coffee machine. But the truth stuck in her chest like carbonation—Jess wasn’t wrong. Almost had never felt so loud.

Ryan texted her around noon.  

**Ryan:** “Are you alive?”  

**Emily:** “Define alive.”  

**Ryan:** “We should find new jokes.”  

**Emily:** “Don’t ruin tradition.”  

**Ryan:** “Dinner tonight? I promise no experimental lighting.”  

**Emily:** “Tempting. Where?”  

**Ryan:** “You’ll see. Dress code: not flammable.”

She grinned. “That’s oddly specific.”

Dinner was at a tiny Italian place tucked behind a bookstore. Candlelight, mismatched chairs, a waiter who looked like he’d seen too many heartbreaks. Emily raised an eyebrow. “You sure this isn’t a date?”

Ryan smirked. “If it is, are you filing a complaint?”

“Not yet.”

They ordered wine and pasta. The conversation was easy—too easy. She teased him about his obsession with punctuality; he teased her about her allergy to structure. Somewhere between the second glass of wine and a shared tiramisu, she realized she’d stopped watching the clock.

He asked, “What’s your worst date ever?”

“Oh, easy. Guy brought his mom. Claimed she was his ‘roommate.’”

Ryan winced. “That’s… efficient trauma.”

“Your turn.”

“Blind date. She said she was a free spirit, then tried to sell me crystals to ‘align my data aura.’”

Emily almost spit her wine. “I’d pay money to see that.”

“Please don’t.”

After dinner, they walked toward the subway. The night air was cool and alive with music from a street performer. She stopped to listen; he watched her instead.  

When she turned, their eyes met—and for a second, the noise of the city just… faded.

He took a step closer. “You know,” he said quietly, “we’re really bad at pretending this is casual.”

“Who’s pretending?” she whispered.

He smiled—small, real, unguarded. Then, for the first time, he kissed her.

It wasn’t cinematic. It was warm, soft, and a little nervous—like two people discovering they’d already fallen and were only just noticing.  

When they finally broke apart, she laughed softly. “Well,” she said, “guess we can’t blame gravity this time.”

Ryan grinned. “I’m still filing a report.”

The next morning, Emily woke up to Jess standing over her with two coffees and one smirk. “So,” Jess said, “you’re officially seeing him?”

Emily blinked. “Define ‘seeing.’”

“Oh my god, stop using his lines.”

“Technically, it’s efficient communication.”

“Technically, you’re in love.”

Emily groaned. “You’re fired.”

“I’m self-employed.”

Ryan, meanwhile, was having his own crisis. Alex walked into his office and found him staring at an email draft for fifteen minutes.

“Dude,” Alex said, “are you writing or waiting for divine approval?”

“It’s a text.”

“Oh no. That’s worse.”

Ryan sighed. “We kissed.”

“Finally! How was it?”

“Statistically perfect.”

“Gross. So what’s the problem?”

“I think I’m happy.”

Alex blinked. “And that’s… bad?”

Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. It’s new. I don’t do… happy.”

“Congratulations,” Alex said. “You’re human.”

Later that week, Emily and Ryan met for brunch. She was late—again. He didn’t mind—again.

She slid into the booth, sunglasses on. “Don’t judge me. I had three hours of sleep and one existential crisis.”

“Rough night?”

“Rough mind.”

He poured her coffee. “So what are we?”

She choked on her sip. “You’re not supposed to ask that until at least the montage sequence.”

“I missed that memo.”

“Good,” she said, recovering. “Because I don’t know yet.”

“Me neither.”

“Cool,” she said. “We’re undefined.”

“Sounds chaotic.”

“Exactly.”

They grinned at each other like idiots.

Over the next few weeks, their “undefined” turned into something that felt suspiciously like a relationship.  

They grocery shopped together and argued over brands of peanut butter. They binge-watched crime shows and bet on who’d guess the killer first. They met halfway between her chaos and his order and somehow built a rhythm neither wanted to fix.

There were still small disasters—like the time Ryan’s cat escaped and Emily chased it three blocks in pajamas yelling “I’m not your mom!” Or when Emily accidentally texted Ryan’s boss a heart emoji meant for him. (“To be fair,” she’d said, “your boss *does* need love.”)

But through every misstep, every laugh, every “what are we doing,” they kept showing up.

One Friday, after too many hours at the bar, Emily leaned against the counter and sighed. Jess cleaned nearby, humming. “You look… content,” Jess said.

“Gross.”

“No, really. You’re glowing again.”

Emily smiled faintly. “Yeah. Maybe I am.”

“About time.”

“Don’t start.”

Jess grinned. “Fine. Just don’t screw it up.”

Emily glanced at the folded napkin still tucked behind the bar mirror—the one from the night she met him. She traced the faded ink: *Next time, I’m buying the drinks.*

She whispered, “Guess you did.”

And for once, she didn’t try to make sense of it.  

She just let it be.