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“We’re good,” I promise her. “Are you done people watching?”

“You noticed that, huh?” she laughs. “I like to watch people while they’re experiencing art.”

“If it’s anything like what my face must look like, then I don’t blame you,” I reply, smiling.

“You know, you’re doing that a lot,” she says, taking my arm as I move to offer it.

“What?” I ask innocently as we walk.

“Touching, kissing, hugging,” she drawls.

“Would you like me to stop?” I ask, opening the door to allow her to step out first.

The silence is deafening as I follow her and I smile smugly.

“Interesting.”

“I didn’t say anything either way,” she says quickly.

“I didn’t say a damn thing.”

Balboa Park is a few steps from where we started, and the sun has already put itself to bed. Noor’s fingers tighten and release around my bicep and I glance toward her.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“I’m good,” she promises. “You’re confusing.”

“I don’t mean to be, so let me lay it out for you,” I say. I worry at the inside of my cheek as I attempt to make sense. “I know we’re trying to take this slow.”

“Consider this a blank slate,” Noor sighs. “I’m tired of the back and forth and fighting. I don’t have the energy for it. The past is the past, and I have a son. I need to figure out how to frame your existence to him.”

“Which is why we’re doing the lessons,” I say with a nod. “So, let’s take this date as a real one. Where I get to touch you, kiss you, and see where things go?”

Her deep breath is telling and her fingers tap on my bicep.

“A real date.”

“Yes. One where I’m just a guy, whose mental health isn’t always the best, but I’m trying,” I confess as we walk. The park is lit up in all different colors, but Noor is lost in thought.

Fuck it. We still have time.

Seeing a bench, I pull her onto my lap.

“Time for a break,” I mumble. “Arran said those were important.”

“Arran talks a lot,” she teases me. “There’s nothing wrong with getting a little help for your mental health, you know. I found a therapist I like, and I have a cocktail of meds that work for me.”

“Mmm. I’m still getting a lot to help,” I wince.

“There’s nothing wrong with that either,” she insists.

“Can I tell you something?” I ask.

She could be really mad at me for this. Alastair, Draven, and I have absolutely no interest in conforming to societal expectations for her. I used to care too much about what other people think, but life is too damn short.

“You can tell me anything,” she says, leaning her head on my chest. “I’m going to warn you that I feel a tiny bit high.”

“Why is that?” I ask.