The walk back was quiet, but not uncomfortable. Their hands didn't find each other again, yet something far more meaningful had settled between them—a soft, unspoken understanding.
He opened the car door for her, and she smiled faintly, brushing her thumb across his fingers before sliding in. That one second was enough to leave him stunned for the next five minutes.
As he got into the car and started the engine, the air was no longer filled with nerves—it was thick with something gentler, warmer. Like peace. Like the kind of silence where no explanation is needed.
Halfway into the drive, he stole a glance at her. She wasn't asleep this time. She was just looking out the window, humming softly to the song playing on the radio.
"You always hum when you're comfortable?" he asked.
She turned to him, startled that he noticed. "Only when I forget I'm around someone."
He smiled. "I like when you forget."
She blushed, but didn't say anything.
---
When they reached her house, he killed the engine but didn't move. She lingered in her seat too. It felt wrong to just end the day here.
But reality was creeping in.
She turned to him. "Thanks for today. For everything."
He nodded, swallowing down the urge to say something deeper, something heavier. Instead, he kept it simple. "We should do this again."
"We should," she agreed.
A beat passed.
Then she leaned in—not for a kiss, not quite—but to rest her forehead against his, just for a second.
And then, just like that, she was gone.
He sat there for a moment, stunned and stupidly smiling.
Back at his place, sleep didn't come easily. He wasn't tossing and turning from restlessness, though—it was something else. A calm kind of storm.
He sat by his desk, fingers lingering on his notebook. He didn't write much tonight. Just one line.
"Today felt different."