Selah
The apartment is too clean. Every surface cleared, everything put back in its place, as if order itself might quiet what's been pacing beneath her skin all evening.
Selah wipes the counter again. It doesn't need it.
She moves to the sink. Washes a mug that was already clean. Sets it in the rack. Stands there a moment, hands resting on the edge. Eyes unfocused.
She exhales.
The music she put on earlier plays from the other room. Something soft. She turns it down. Then off.
Yoga mat. Living room floor. A few stretches she knows by heart. The kind that used to slow her down.
They don't.
She folds the mat, slides it back against the wall, and finally drops onto the couch. More collapse than sit.
Jude's jacket is still there. Not placed. Not curated.
Just… there. Draped over the cushion beside her like it belongs.
Selah reaches for a book from the coffee table. Opens it. Reads a sentence. Reads it again.
A third time.
She closes the book and lets it fall face-down onto the cushion.
Her phone sits on the table in front of her. Face dark. Silent. Innocent.
She stares at it for a long moment. Then leans back, eyes closing, shoulders dropping as a long breath leaves her. Slow, extended, like she's been holding it all day.
Her eyes open. She looks at the ceiling.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Selah?" she says aloud.
"Just text him already."
She sits forward. Picks up the phone. Types. Stops. Deletes. Types again.
Her eyebrows lift slightly. Eyes wide. A little amused. A little exposed.
She exhales as she hits send.
I'd really like to see you.
The phone rests in her hand. She doesn't set it down. Doesn't look away. It buzzes sooner than she expects.
Jude:
Yeah. I would too. How does Thursday at 7 sound?
Selah lets out a short breath that's almost a laugh. She shakes her head once, more at herself than at him, then types.
How about now?
This time the pause stretches. Just long enough for her to wonder if she pushed too hard.
Then, the phone buzzes.
Jude:
Now works.
Selah stares at the screen, then she smiles. She sets the phone down, finally, and stands.
Jude's jacket comes with her as she heads for the door.
Jude
Jude is at home.
The lights in the living room are low, dimmed enough that the rain outside becomes part of the room instead of something beyond it. The window is cracked slightly. Enough to hear it.
His shoes are kicked near the door like he never planned to go anywhere again tonight.
The laptop sits open on the coffee table, an email frozen mid-scroll. He hasn't touched the trackpad in a while.
His phone lies face down beside it. Not avoided. Just…respected.
The rain keeps its own rhythm against the glass.
The phone vibrates.
Jude doesn't reach for it right away. He exhales slowly, then flips it over.
Selah:
I'd really like to see you.
He smiles. Immediate. Unfiltered. Then he stills. Reads it again.
The smile softens. Less surprise now. More gravity.
He'd told himself this was done. Not broken. Just finished. A moment that mattered…and then passed.
He leans back into the couch, rain streaking the window beside him, and lets the truth settle: he never stopped wanting her.
The phone rests warm in his hand. He types once. Deletes it. Types again.
Finally:
Yeah. I would too. How does Thursday at 7 sound?
He sets the phone down this time. Forces himself not to stare at it.
Two seconds pass. Then three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Selah:
How about now?
Jude lets out a quiet breath he didn't realize he was holding. A soft laugh follows. Not because it's funny, but because it's unreal in the best way.
For a split second, he's sixteen again—awkward, hopeful, stunned that someone he'd quietly admired might actually be choosing him back.
He shakes his head once. Grounds himself. Then types:
Now works.
He stands. Grabs his jacket.
At the door, he pauses with his hand on the knob, then smiles again.
The Diner
The bell above the door gives a soft, tired jingle as Selah steps inside.
The diner smells like coffee and butter and something fried that's been done right for decades. Vinyl booths. Chrome edges dulled by time.
Selah pauses just long enough to take it in.
She chooses a booth by the window, but slides in on the side that faces the door.
Jude isn't there yet. She notices that immediately.
Outside, the streetlights reflect faintly on the glass. Inside, the diner hums with quiet conversations, the scrape of silverware, a laugh from somewhere behind her. A man a few booths down is talking a little too loudly.
She clocks him without turning her head.
She folds her hands on the table. Unfolds them. Then rests one arm along the back of the booth, pretending she's more relaxed than she is.
The door opens again. She sees him instantly.
Jude pauses just past the threshold, jacket still on, eyes scanning the room. He looks right. Then left. Then he turns.
Their eyes meet. They both smile.
Not cautiously. Not politely. The kind that arrives before you can stop it.
Jude walks straight to the booth and slides in across from her.
They speak at the same time.
"Hi."
They stop. Then laugh. Soft, surprised, relieved.
"Hi," Selah repeats.
"Hi," Jude echoes, shaking his head once like he can't quite believe this is happening.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. Like there's too much in the room to grab onto just one thing.
Jude studies her, something thoughtful flickering across his face.
Selah sees it coming and lifts a hand gently.
"We can talk about all of that later," she says. "Tonight, I just want to talk."
Jude exhales. Nods. "Okay."
Then his expression shifts. "But," he says, "I do have one thing I need to ask you first."
Selah straightens slightly. "What is it?"
Jude holds her gaze. "Do you trust me?"
The question settles between them. Quiet, direct, impossible to dodge.
The diner continues around them. But in the booth by the window, the night narrows.
Selah doesn't answer right away. She drops her gaze to the table, watching the grain of the wood. Her thumb traces the edge of a small nick near the sugar caddy.
She exhales, almost a laugh.
Jude doesn't interrupt.
Finally, she looks back up. A small smile. Not playful. Not coy.
Something decided.
"You know what?" she says.
Jude tilts his head.
The words don't sound rehearsed. They sound discovered. "I think I trust you more than I've ever trusted anyone in my life."
Selah reaches her hand across the table. Jude looks down at it for a moment, almost like he's making sure it's real.
Then he takes it. Their fingers lace naturally. No hesitation. No adjustment.
The waitress appears beside them, coffee pot in hand, smiling like she's walked into something good.
"You two ready for coffee?" she asks.
Selah doesn't look away from Jude. Jude doesn't look away from Selah.
"Yeah," Selah says. "We are."
And just like that, the night opens up in front of them.
The waitress hovers nearby, coffee pot balanced easily on one hip. She can't be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. Dark hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, eyeliner slightly smudged in a way that suggests a long shift rather than carelessness.
There's an ease to her smile that comes from having seen every version of people at this hour of the night and knowing exactly how seriously to take each one.
She pours coffee into Selah's mug, then Jude's, glancing between them like she's already clocked the dynamic.
"So," she says lightly, setting the pot down. "What can I get you two?"
They order the kind of food you choose when you plan on staying awhile. The waitress scribbles quickly, then looks up again. Her smile softens just a touch. "You two make a really cute couple."
Neither Selah nor Jude says anything. They just smile. Not big. Not performative. Just… shared.
The waitress's grin widens like she's pleased to have been right. "Well," she says, tucking the order pad into her apron, "I guess I gotta go deal with this one over there."
She gestures over her shoulder toward a booth a few rows away.
Selah and Jude glance in that direction, but not long enough yet. Just shapes. Movement. A voice rising a little too confidently above the diner's low hum.
"Some guys," the waitress adds, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "are just way too full of themselves."
She takes a step back, then pauses. Her eyes flick to Selah. Then to Jude. She reaches out and gives Selah's shoulder a quick, affectionate tap.
"But then again," she says, nodding toward Jude, "some guys aren't."
And with that she's gone, already smoothing her apron as she heads back toward the louder booth.
Jude watches her go, then looks back at Selah. Selah is smiling again. A little wider this time.
"What?" he asks.
She tilts her head. "Nothing. This just feels…good."
"Yeah," he says. "It does."
Jude glances at her jacket.
"Hey," he says. "That's a pretty nice jacket."
Selah looks down, then back up. "Yeah," she says. "Some guy I know gave it to me."
Jude's smile deepens.
Then a voice cuts through the diner.
"Most people prefer Prince Pierre," the voice is saying. "But I think the characterization that Tolstoy writes into Mary Bolkonskaya is some of his best work."
They freeze. Look at each other.
"It's him," Jude says.
"I know," Selah gasps.
Selah collapses into full, uncontrollable laughter. Jude drops his face into his hands, laughing just as hard.
They try to stop. They fail.
The laughter fades slowly.
Selah slides out of the booth. Jude looks up, and she's already beside him. Her head finds his shoulder. Her fingers thread through his.
Jude stills. Then relaxes. The way you do when something finally fits.
The diner hums.
Dishes. Voices. Coffee pouring somewhere behind the counter.
None of it matters.
Outside, the night holds steady. Inside the booth, Selah stays.
And Jude lets himself believe it.