Rob - the guy who's also from Chicago he's cute and artistic.

You spend most of the evening pretending not to overthink it. The meeting with Rob isn’t a date—you’ve told yourself that so many times the words have started to lose meaning. It’s an interview, a study of how connection begins. Still, you find yourself standing in front of the mirror, holding two shirts like they’re moral choices.

Tom walks by the doorway, toweling his hair. “You’ve been staring at yourself for ten minutes,” he says, half amused. “You okay?”

“I have to look normal.”

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You are normal.”

“That’s not helpful.” You turn toward him, the shirt draped over one arm. “What does a normal, confident, approachable journalist wear to a coffee meeting with a man she’s interviewing for a story about modern dating?”

Tom thinks about that, then shrugs. “So… basically, a first date outfit.”

You throw a look at him, part scandalized, part laughing. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“I mean—realistically.” He gestures at the shirts. “What are the options?”

You hold up the first one, soft blue, professional. The second—white, sleeveless, simple—feels lighter, more like you.

“The blue one says ‘responsible reporter,’” Tom says, “but the white one says ‘I actually live in this century.’”

You roll your eyes. “So… white?”

He grins. “You look good in both. But yeah, white.”

You watch him in the mirror, his easy confidence both reassuring and slightly disorienting. He’s been steady through all of this—teasing, but never cold. And yet, beneath the lightness, you sense something quieter, a flicker of unease that neither of you quite wants to name.

You smooth your hair, check your reflection again. “Do I look like someone who could ask smart questions?”

Tom steps closer, resting his chin on your shoulder. “You look like someone who’s going to do great work.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You smile at him in the mirror. “Thanks.”

He nods toward your phone on the dresser. “When’s coffee?”

“Tomorrow at four. Across from the church with the Wright design.”

He whistles softly. “Classy. Just—be careful, okay?”

“I will.”

You mean it. But later, when you lie awake, the image of the church rises in your mind—clean lines, open air, sunlight spilling over stone. You wonder what kind of truth waits there, and whether you’re brave enough to find it. Tom leans over, kissing you, his tongue exploring, but you can't get in the mood. after a few moments, you push him back.

"Sorry sweetie, I just need to sleep ok?"

Tom is as understanding as always, and the two of you roll over. You stare at the ceiling for a long while, wondering why you feel so nervous.