Page 54 of Dissonance

“You’ve put an alarming amount of thought into this,” I say, almost to myself.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

He’s looking at me from across the table like we do this all the time, and I drop my gaze back to the menu because we don’t. We’ve never done this before, nothing this ordinary.

“That was sweet,” I admit quietly.

He doesn’t make anything of it, just pours water into both our glasses and sets the bottle down.

The waiter appears, pen poised over his notepad. “Are we ready to order?”

Everything sounds good as I scan the options again, deliberating between two dishes. I chew on my lower lip, my stomach rumbling loudly.

“I’ll have the grilled chicken,” I say, then hesitate. “No, the carbonara.”

The waiter nods and turns to Lockie. “Bring her both, and I’ll take the filet, medium-rare.”

Once the waiter leaves, I eye him across the table. “Both? Really?”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“Because you wanted it too.”

I look at him and don’t say anything, a little thrown by the thought behind that.

Dinner is easier than I expected. Conversation moves between work, Cooper, not once touching the pregnancy.

“The jazz,” he says, watching as I slide half the grilled chicken onto his plate. “Where did that come from?”

I pause, surprised he’d noticed it playing the day he turned up outside my front door. “My grandfather. He had this whole collection of records, proper vintage ones.” I set down my fork and take a sip of water. “I used to sit with him on Sunday afternoons, and he’d put one on and tell me about where he was when he first heard it.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching me the way he does when he’s really listening.

“What about you?” I ask. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked what you do on your days off.”

“Have I ever had one?” he teases, folding his napkin and setting it beside his empty plate. “I’m building a cabin.”

I stare at him. “Yourself?”

“Aye.”

“As in, with your hands?”

“Usually how it’s done, lass.”

A quiet breath leaves me, lips parting in surprise. “I had no idea. Is it finished?”

“Not yet. Getting there.”

By the time we step outside, the city’s still alive and loud and entirely indifferent to us. His hand finds the small of my back again as we walk to the car. I don’t know if the touch is new, or if I’m just letting myself notice, but I can feel it everywhere.

He pulls up outside my apartment building and walks me in without asking. The elevator is quiet, just the soft mechanical hum and my thoughts a tangled mess. Tonight felt different from every other time we’ve been near each other. The charged, urgent, quick-to-ignite nights when we couldn’t keep our hands to ourselves. This is slower, taking up more space.

“You’re quiet,” he says.

“Sorry. I’m…thinking.”