Saturday morning arrived like a hush over the city—no alarms, no deadlines, just the soft whisper of wind through the trees outside Karen's window. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, coffee in hand, listening to the steady purr of Milton as he wound around her legs. For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel immediately tethered to responsibility.
The school week had ended without further incident. Jonny had returned to class, on time, prepared, silent. He didn't stay after. He didn't make lingering eye contact. He didn't push.
He gave her space.
And somehow, that made it worse.
The silence between them now wasn't cold—it was charged. Like a low hum under her skin, alive and patient. It made Karen feel vulnerable in ways she hadn't felt since her twenties. And more disturbingly, it made her feel wanted—not just admired, but understood. The kind of wanting that dug beneath the surface.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A text.
Jonny Westlake:
> Hey.
I know it's Saturday, so feel free to ignore me.
But there's this poetry reading at a bookstore downtown tonight.
No pressure, but I thought of you.
And I'd like to go.
Would you come—with me?
Karen stared at the screen. Her thumb hovered over the reply button.
It would be easy to say no. The right thing. She could ignore it, delete it, pretend it never happened. She'd told herself she would maintain distance. Keep it professional. But the ache inside her had been growing. Not just for attention, but for connection. For meaning.
And God help her, she wanted to go.
She typed slowly:
Karen Higgins:
> What time?
His reply came less than a minute later.
Jonny Westlake:
> 7 p.m. Marlowe's Books on Carmine Street. I'll meet you there. Or walk you in, if you want.
She stared at the message. A bookstore. A public event. Not some intimate corner. Not a trap.
It was… respectful.
At 6:45, she stood in front of her mirror and almost changed clothes three times. She finally settled on a simple navy blouse and dark jeans—comfortable, casual, but not careless. She wore earrings she hadn't touched in years, small silver ones shaped like leaves, and tied her hair back in a loose knot. Her lips trembled slightly as she applied a sheer rose gloss.
She hadn't dressed for a man in years.
When she arrived at Marlowe's, the lights inside were golden and soft, the windows slightly fogged from the bodies already packed inside. Outside, leaning casually against the brick wall, Jonny stood holding two cups of coffee.
"Hey," he said when he saw her. "You came."
Karen smoothed her coat. "You said poetry."
He handed her one of the cups. "Chamomile. Thought you might want something calm."
"Not wine and fire, then?" she quipped.
Jonny grinned. "Later, maybe."
They stepped inside, the scent of paper and cinnamon in the air. Rows of folding chairs had been set up between the shelves. A small wooden stage stood at the front, already occupied by a woman in her sixties reading a poem about late love and rain-soaked sidewalks.
Karen sat beside Jonny, not too close, but close enough to feel the warmth of him beside her. She pretended not to notice the way his knee brushed hers—once, then again, not quite by accident.
The poets read in turns—some nervous, some confident. The crowd snapped instead of clapping. Karen found herself laughing once, really laughing, at a poem about a pigeon falling in love with a statue. Jonny watched her more than the stage, and she let him.
For an hour, it felt like nothing else existed.
When the reading ended, they lingered among the shelves. Karen ran her fingers across the spines of anthologies. Jonny hovered near her, not speaking, just watching. Finally, she picked up a slim book—Letters to a Young Poet by Rainer Maria Rilke—and turned it over in her hands.
"I read this when I was twenty," she murmured.
"You still remember it?"
She nodded. "Rilke said, 'Love consists in this: that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.' I didn't understand it back then."
"And now?" he asked.
She looked up at him. "Now I think he was talking about boundaries. And how the right person doesn't crash through them. They wait at the edge, patiently."
Jonny smiled, soft and serious. "I'd like to be that kind of person."
Karen held his gaze. Her heart thudded quietly, rhythmically. She nodded, just once.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the streets glistened. He offered her his arm—not his hand—and she took it. They walked slowly, side by side.
"You hungry?" he asked as they neared her car.
"A little," she admitted.
"There's a diner around the corner. We could—"
She stopped, turning to face him. "Jonny…"
He looked at her, expression unreadable.
"I don't know what this is yet," she said. "But I'm not ready for more tonight. I can't let this move too fast. I won't."
"I understand."
She hesitated. "You don't seem frustrated."
"I'm not," he said. "If all I get is your company tonight, that's more than I ever expected."
Karen exhaled. A tension in her shoulders melted she hadn't realized she'd been carrying.
"Goodnight, Jonny."
He leaned down—not to kiss her, but to press a gentle hand to her shoulder. "Goodnight, Professor Higgins."
As she drove home, she felt something she hadn't in a very long time—not longing, not guilt.
Hope.