Maya woke up at 6 a.m. to the sound of her phone buzzing. For a disorienting moment, she thought it was an emergency a client in crisis, her father, something wrong. Then she saw Ethan's name on the screen and her heart did that complicated lurch that was becoming familiar.
A photo. The city at dawn from what looked like a rooftop, the sky turning pink and gold, buildings emerging from shadow.
The text below it: Couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about tonight. Is 7 too late for dinner?
Maya stared at the image, at the beauty he'd captured while she was sleeping, and felt something crack open in her chest. He was here. In her city. Awake at dawn thinking about her.
She typed back: 7 is perfect. Couldn't sleep either.
Three dots appeared immediately. Nervous?
Terrified.
Good. Me too.
Maya smiled at her phone like a teenager, then felt ridiculous and got up to make coffee. It was Saturday, which meant no clients, which meant an entire day to spiral into anxiety about tonight.
Or and this was a novel thought she could actually do something productive.
She pulled out the watercolor set Ethan had given her, still in its packaging on her kitchen counter where she'd placed it carefully after getting home last night. The paper was thick and cream-colored, the paints jewel-bright in their small compartments. Professional grade. Expensive.
He'd been thinking about her in Iceland. Had seen this and thought of her.
Maya's hands trembled as she opened the set. She hadn't painted really painted, not just demonstrations for clients since her mother's funeral. That last painting had been abstract grief, all dark blues and blacks, and she'd destroyed it the same night, unable to look at what she'd created.
But this morning, with dawn light streaming through her kitchen window and Ethan's text still glowing on her phone, Maya felt something different. Not happiness, exactly. More like permission.
She set up at her small kitchen table with coffee and the paint set and a glass of water. No plan, no pressure. Just to see what happened.
The first brushstroke was terrifying.
The second was easier.
By the third, she was lost in it the way color bloomed across paper, the way water carried pigment into unexpected shapes, the way her hand remembered what her mind had forgotten. She painted the sunrise from Ethan's photo, memory and imagination blending together. Not realistic, but emotional. All the fear and hope and tentative wanting she couldn't articulate in words.
When she finally looked up, two hours had passed and her coffee was cold. The painting was messy, imperfect, probably not good by any objective standard.
It was also the most honest thing she'd created in two years.
Maya took a photo and sent it to Ethan before she could overthink it. You gave me something back I didn't know I'd lost. Thank you.
His response came quickly: It's beautiful. You're beautiful. See you tonight.
Maya read that text approximately fifteen times before forcing herself to shower.
The day passed in a strange blur of normalcy and anticipation. Maya cleaned her apartment even though Ethan wouldn't see it. She called her father, who asked about Sienna's wedding and whether Maya was eating enough. She didn't mention Ethan that felt too fragile, too new to expose to her father's protective scrutiny.
She did laundry, paid bills, tried to read a book but couldn't focus. Finally, at 4 p.m., she gave up and called Sienna.
"I'm freaking out," Maya said without preamble.
"Good freaking out or bad freaking out?"
"Both? Neither? I don't know." Maya paced her living room. "What if tonight is amazing and then he leaves in three weeks and I'm worse off than before?"
"What if tonight is amazing and you have three weeks of amazing before reality hits?" Sienna countered. "Why are you pre-grieving something that hasn't even happened yet?"
"Because that's what I do. It's literally my survival mechanism."
"It's your prison, babe. There's a difference." Sienna's voice softened. "Look, I get it. You're scared. But you already said yes. You're already in it. So you might as well actually be present instead of spending the whole time calculating exit strategies."
Maya sank onto her couch. "When did you get so wise?"
"I married someone, remember? That requires a terrifying amount of optimism." She paused. "Plus, I've seen the way you've been the past two years. Safe, sure. But also… diminished. Like you're living at half volume. Maybe this guy turns out to be nothing. Maybe it hurts. But at least you'll be at full volume again."
After they hung up, Maya sat with that. Half volume. It was accurate in a way that stung.
At 6 p.m., she started getting ready. She'd chosen her outfit that afternoon black jeans, a deep green sweater that her mother had once said made her eyes luminous, boots that were practical but pretty. She kept her makeup minimal, her hair down and loose.
When she looked in the mirror, she barely recognized herself. Not because she looked different, but because she looked alive. Nervous and scared and hopeful all the things she'd been suppressing.
Ethan texted at 6:45: Leaving now. Still terrified.
Maya smiled. Good. Me too.
He'd chosen a small Italian restaurant in her neighborhood intimate without being overtly romantic, nice enough to feel special but casual enough not to be intimidating. Maya appreciated the thoughtfulness even as her anxiety ratcheted higher.
She arrived exactly at 7, because being early felt too eager and being late felt rude. Ethan was already there, standing outside the restaurant looking at his phone, and Maya's breath caught.
He'd dressed up. Not a suit, but dark jeans and a button-down shirt under his jacket, his hair still messy but in an intentional way. He looked up as she approached, and his smile was so genuine, so openly happy to see her, that Maya felt her carefully constructed defenses wobble.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
They stood there for a beat too long, the air between them charged with everything unsaid.
"You look beautiful," Ethan finally said. "That color is you should always wear that color."
Maya felt heat rise in her cheeks. "You clean up nice yourself."
"I tried. Marcus FaceTimed me for wardrobe approval. Apparently, I can't be trusted to dress myself for important occasions."
"This is an important occasion?"
Ethan's expression turned serious. "Maya. This is the most important thing I've done in months."
Oh. That was that was too much honesty, too fast. Maya felt panic flutter in her chest, but before it could take hold, Ethan smiled and opened the restaurant door.
"Shall we?"
The restaurant was perfect warm lighting, quiet corners, the smell of garlic and fresh bread. They were seated at a small table near the window, close enough that their knees bumped under the table, close enough that Maya could see the flecks of gray-green in Ethan's blue eyes.
They ordered wine neither of them really wanted and pasta they were too nervous to eat much of. The conversation started stilted, both of them too aware of the weight of the evening, but gradually found its rhythm.
"Tell me about your week," Ethan said. "The real version, not the polite version."
Maya twisted her wine glass. "I had a breakthrough with a client. Sophie the nine-year-old I mentioned? She finally painted her dad. It was this tiny figure in the corner of the page, but she painted him. That's progress."
"You love them," Ethan observed. "Your clients. The way you talk about them there's so much care there."
"They're brave. Braver than I am, honestly. They show up every week and do the hard work of feeling things." Maya looked down. "I hide behind helping them instead of helping myself."
"That's not hiding. That's having purpose."
"Maybe. Or maybe it's both." She looked up at him. "What about you? What was your week really like?"
Ethan leaned back, considering. "I stayed with Marcus and his family. Their kid, Oliver, is two and has apparently decided I'm a jungle gym. I've been climbed on more in the past week than in my entire adult life."
"That sounds exhausting."
"It was." His smile was complicated. "It was also… I don't know. Marcus has this life messy and loud and real. Toys everywhere, half-finished conversations, a routine that's constantly being disrupted. And he's happy. Like, genuinely happy. It made me wonder what I've been running from all these years."
"And what have you been running from?"
"That," Ethan said simply. "The possibility that staying could be better than leaving. That roots don't trap you they ground you."
Maya's throat tightened. "Ethan"
"I know. Three weeks. I'm not" He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. "I'm not trying to freak you out. I'm just being honest. You make me want to reconsider things I thought were settled."