Something you don’t call a date

Last night was one of those quiet Fridays that should’ve slipped by unnoticed. But then Randy texted—short, casual, dangerous in its simplicity: You free tonight? There’s a booth with our names on it. I said yes before giving myself the chance to overthink it.

It was a chain restaurant this time—mid-tier, trying too hard with dim lights and fake wood walls that smelled faintly like microwaved marinara. I got there first. He showed up two minutes later, hair damp from a shower, jacket hanging open like he’d barely bothered to finish getting dressed. His eyes lit up when they found me.

We paused, just long enough to notice we were pausing, then stepped into another awkward hug. Except this time, his lips brushed mine. Quick. Soft. Unmistakable. Definitely not nothing.

We got a booth by the window. The glass was fogged just enough to make everything outside feel far away, except the streetlights smudging gold across the pavement. The booth was wide enough to stretch out in, but close enough that every accidental knee bump and lingering glance stopped feeling accidental fast.

We slid back into our usual rhythm—people-watching, assigning absurd backstories like we were co-writing the world’s strangest rom-com.

“That woman with four martinis?” Randy tilted his head toward the bar. “Plotting a hostile corporate takeover. Probably wearing a wire.”

“Nope,” I said, grinning. “She’s quitting her job to raise goats in Vermont. She’s breaking the news tonight. Vodka gives her courage.”

Behind us, a couple whispered their way through a mild argument over salad dressing. Randy leaned in close, warm breath grazing my cheek. “Divorced five years. Still do lunch every Friday. And dinner on Saturday nights. Secretly in love. Both too stubborn to say it.”

“Or,” I murmured, tilting my head toward him, “they’re divorced and dating again… because the market is a hellscape.”

We laughed—hard. The kind of laugh that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that opens something up without warning.

We kept going, spinning secret lives for everyone around us. The overworked server became a washed-up soap star researching his comeback. The busboy in earbuds? A reclusive musical prodigy on the verge of a breakthrough. The guy eating ribs alone? A retired hacker turned whistleblower in witness protection.

But somewhere between the jokes and the drink refills, things shifted. He asked about Vic.

I told him the truth. Maybe more than I meant to. That it started when we worked for my brother. That it was supposed to be nothing—but the chemistry had a mind of its own. That it still lingered, on and off, like muscle memory I hadn’t trained out of my system.

Randy didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened, just a little. “Some people stay in your bloodstream longer than they should,” he said.

I nodded. “It’s not fair to compare.”

“I’m not trying to compete,” he said, quieter now. “I just don’t want to be anyone’s placeholder. I’ve been that. It sucks.”

His voice had a new edge—low, careful. He told me about the woman who kept him at arm’s length for a year and a half. The coworker who bailed the second her ex texted ‘hey.’ The fling who, it turned out, was married all along—news to him.

“I guess I’ve got a type,” he said with a crooked smile. “Emotionally unavailable and conveniently out of reach.”

But when he talked about his kids, the tone shifted. Softer. Unguarded. His fingers stopped fidgeting.

“They ask about you,” he said, eyes steady. “Emma wants to know why you haven’t come over. Max says he has something to show you.”

I smiled. “What kind of something?”

Randy pulled out his phone, showing me a blurry photo of a Frankenstein-looking controller. “He rigged a ceiling fan motor into a wind tunnel for his science project. Terrified the dog. Totally worked.”

“Genius,” I said.

“Terrifying,” he corrected. “But yeah. Genius.”

He chuckled, then added, “Emma called me out the other day. Told me I get ‘extra smiley’ when your name shows up on my phone. Said it was gross. And kind of sweet. Then she handed me a fortune cookie and told me to ‘channel my inner romantic.’ I hadn’t even eaten Chinese food recently.”

I laughed, leaning into the warmth spreading through my chest. That girl didn’t miss a beat.

By the time the check came, the restaurant had emptied around us. Neither of us moved. He reached for the bill, and when our fingers brushed, neither of us pulled away. It wasn’t accidental this time.

We closed out the place and joked about making a habit of it. Outside, the lot was quiet, lights buzzing faintly overhead. The air had cooled just enough to make my sweater feel thinner than it was.

He walked me to my car. We lingered by the driver’s door, standing in the kind of silence that hums with something waiting to happen. I turned to thank him, but I didn’t get the words out.

He kissed me. Deeper. Slower. Not rushed. Not unsure. His hands slid to my hips, then under my sweater, where they settled against bare skin and paused over my breasts. His thumbs brushed lightly, almost reverently, teasing over nipples that had already responded to the chill—and maybe the company.

Then he froze.

“Shit—sorry,” he murmured, backing off just a little, hands still in the space where I could feel them.

I caught his gaze, heartbeat louder than reason. “You’re good. I promise.”

Something shifted in his face. Like he’d been holding his breath and didn’t realize it. Then he leaned back in.

The second kiss was longer. Intentional. Serious without being too heavy. It didn’t feel like romance, exactly—not yet. But it didn’t feel like nothing, either. It felt like the edge of a spark catching flame.

When we finally pulled back, we were both breathing a little harder.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” he admitted.

“Me neither,” I said. “But I kind of like it.”

He smiled, that slow, crooked one that made my stomach tilt. “Yeah. I’d like to keep liking it.”

I slipped into the car and closed the door gently. He stood there a moment longer, watching me like he had more to say—but then just nodded and walked away.

No declarations. No fireworks.

Just a kiss I could still feel hours later, and the faint, electric pull of a maybe neither of us was quite ready to say out loud.