Right now, whatever flimsy thread was holding my dignity together just snapped like an overworked rubber band. And honestly? I can't even blame it.
How in the world do I explain this mess of a lie? That I bailed on a date I begged for—because of "work"—only to bump into Harry, the said date, at a place where couples are busy being couples? How does one spin that? What do I say? That the "urgent office errands" I claimed were dragging me around all day somehow dropped me at the exact location where he came to spend his evening? How convenient, Camila.
I already lied this morning—something lame about needing to turn in files, which is why I kept him waiting by his car like a clueless puppy. And now? Another lie. Same storyline. Different scene. Office drama, again.
Harry's not stupid. He'll put two and two together, and I'll look like a walking contradiction.
And here's the real kicker: I barely met him 24 hours ago, and somehow I've racked up a playlist of half-truths and full-blown fibs. Camila, seriously—how do you plan to win this man back when all he's seen is your Oscar-worthy performance of The Corporate Girlfriend Who Can't Be Honest?
But whatever. Let's just get through tonight without another scene. One crisis at a time. I'll deal with the fallout tomorrow—if it even comes.
Because despite it all, I like him. No—scratch that—I want him. And it's not some empty crush or infatuation. I can't explain why. There's just something about him. His calm, his wit, the way he looks at me like I'm more than just noise. Whether it's for a season or a lifetime, I want a shot at love again.
It might sound unhinged. Desperate, even. But after my last relationship ended—three years of building something that shattered under the weight of my calendar—I promised myself I'd know what I want when I see it.
And right now, it's Harry. No matter how tangled this web gets—I want to at least try.
A penny for your thoughts?
Harry's voice cut through my internal monologue like a soft breeze brushing away the fog. I blinked, startled—as if he had caught me mid-dream and gently pulled me back into the present.
God, had I been staring that long?
What if he wasn't upset? What if all the panic and rehearsed apologies circling my mind were just...me being me—spiraling and overthinking, as usual? Maybe, just maybe, I'm always five miles ahead in the worst direction.
But then, as if reading my worry-laced silence, he leaned in slightly and said—
You don't owe me any explanations. Let's just make tonight worth it. You've clearly been hustling all week—allow yourself to enjoy this moment. Let's drop everything else at the door and just...be here.
Wait. What?
My heart did a double take.
Who even says things like that anymore? What kind of man gives grace instead of guilt, ease instead of ego?
I looked at him again, properly this time, and I swear—if my thoughts had hands, they'd be fanning my face.
Harry.
This man wasn't just fine, he was kind. Gentle, composed, saying all the right things without trying too hard.
My mind whispered: Girl, behave.
Still, I couldn't hide the smile stretching across my face as I said softly—almost like a confession to myself—
Yes, Harry. I'm really glad I made it here.
And for the first time that evening, I actually meant it.
Camila (smiling, half amused)
You know... I really didn't expect you to be this chill. Most men would've written me off after the "sorry, work emergency" excuse. I basically stood you up... twice.
Harry (grinning, hands on the table)
Please. You're talking to someone who once left a first date to pick up a "premium fare." If someone's waving cash at 2x the rate, you better believe I'm putting love on hold.
Camila (laughing)
Nooo! Not a surge-price over romance!
Harry
Hey, I didn't write the algorithm—I just respect it. Besides, some of those surge riders tip like they're trying to buy your soul.
Camila
Okay, fair. Still, that's cold. Romantic dinner ditched for GPS and a backseat driver?
Harry
And I made it up to her with some shopping the next day. Not my fault Uber doesn't pause heartbreak during peak hours.
Camila (grinning)
So you're one of us. Hustle-first humans. Living life by the ping of an app and the mercy of your battery percentage.
Harry
100%. I'm passionate about it, though. I get to meet people, hear weird stories, dodge emotional trauma in 15-minute rides—it's therapy with brakes.
Camila
You're making it sound poetic. Meanwhile, my last boyfriend called me "married to my MacBook" and said he felt like the side chick to my calendar.
Harry
Oof. Harsh. Mine just texted, "I hope you and your five-star rating are happy together." Then unmatched me.
Camila (snorts)
Oh my God. That's brutal.
Harry
Hey, I cried. Then immediately accepted a 45-minute airport trip. Healing comes in mileage.
Camila
I relate more than I should. My ex once planned a beach picnic and I brought my laptop—and a hotspot. Let's just say, that was the last time he packed sandwiches for us.
Harry (wide-eyed)
You brought Wi-Fi to the ocean? You are truly my people.
Camila
What can I say? Deadlines don't care about sea breeze.
Harry (laughing)
We're clearly emotionally unavailable, yet somehow emotionally expensive.
Camila
Exactly. But hey, here we are. Recovering workaholic meets Uber philosopher. That's got rom-com written all over it.
Harry
Right? The overworked girl and the ride-share guy who gave her more than a ride to work.
Camila (grinning)
Let's make tonight the plot twist. No apps. No clients. Just vibes and questionable decisions.
Harry (smiling warmly)
And if it all goes south... at least you've got five stars and I've got a good story for my next rider.
With both hands stretched out like an invitation into another world, Harry ushered us to the dance floor.
And just like that, the night slipped into something magical. It was giving everything—rich colors blooming under warm lights, the layered scent of colognes trailing behind every passing couple, clinking glasses, decadent food, music that held you, and yes—me. Me, on a dance floor, with a man.
A whole man. My man? Let's not rush... but still, a man.
It felt too good to be real—like I had stumbled into someone else's dream and was too dazed to ask questions.
And then—Harry danced.
Wait—Harry could dance? Not the clumsy two-step shuffle I half-expected, but with rhythm. With fluid ease. He moved like music had always lived in his bones, like confidence was stitched into every sway of his body. Not loud confidence, not cocky. The quiet kind—the kind that whispered, I've done this before. Maybe not with you. But I've been waiting to.
And then… it was us. Two bodies finding a rhythm we didn't even know we shared. Hands laced—not casually, not carelessly, but like we were holding on to something fragile. Something sacred. We swayed, slow and steady, the world narrowing down to just this—our almost-newlywed sway, hearts beating like the soft percussion behind the melody.
Something clicked.
His smile—unforced. Mine, helpless. It wasn't performance. It wasn't politeness. It was release. Both of us shedding the weight of the week, the noise, the past we hadn't dared mention. In that gentle rocking, in that silent conversation of touch and breath, it was like we were daring to believe again.
This wasn't just a dance. It was freedom. A sigh disguised as movement.
And when his eyes found mine—God—there was wonder there. Not casual curiosity, not fleeting interest. Wonder. As though he wasn't just in the moment, but drinking it in, memorizing it like he'd earned it. Like he'd prayed for it. As though he had been waiting for someone who carried the same kind of tired—busy but yearning, weary but still craving something real.
Me? I was undone. Smiling like I couldn't help myself. And him? He mirrored it, like we were caught in the same spell, the same spark.
His hands—warm, steady, grounding—sent heat racing up my skin, little jolts of lightning that settled in my chest. Not overwhelming. Not terrifying. Just the kind of flutter that whispered, stay here, don't you dare let go yet.
"Careful," I teased, my voice lower than I expected, "you're setting the bar way too high for a first dance."
His mouth curved into that grin—that dangerous, knowing grin—and he leaned just close enough for me to feel his breath against my cheek. "Maybe I like ruining the curve."
My pulse tripped. My thoughts? A chaotic mess. A storm of answers I couldn't say out loud. And no, don't judge me—this isn't about fantasies running wild. We barely know each other. Barely.
But he wasn't pulling away. If anything, he held me tighter, like he'd decided this moment was his and he wasn't about to surrender it. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of my hand, a touch so subtle it felt almost accidental. Almost.
I bit back a laugh. "You do realize," I murmured, "that if this is how you dance… I might start expecting more."
His eyes caught mine, steady and deliberate, like he'd been waiting for me to say exactly that. And when he answered, his voice was velvet—soft, teasing, dangerous: "Good. Expect everything."
And if this—this breathtaking, quiet storm of a first dance—feels like this…
Then God help me when we reach goodbye.