But my friend Marcy insisted, so I showed up thirty minutes late, underdressed, and already regretting it.
That’s when I met Peter.
He stood near the window, tall and lean, wearing a navy button-down that brought out the blue in his eyes. He wasn’t loud or flashy, but there was something in the way he looked at people, as if he were genuinely interested. When he laughed at my sarcastic remark about quinoa being a conspiracy, it wasn’t just out of politeness.
He really laughed.
Later that night, he handed me a glass of wine and said, “I like that you’re honest. Most people pretend to like quinoa.”
I smiled. “I pretend to like a lot of things.
Makes life easier.”
He shook his head. “I think hard truths are better than soft lies.”
And that’s how it started.
For months, he was gentle, attentive, and quietly charming. He brought me flowers on random Tuesdays, just because he said he walked past a stall and thought of me.
He would text to make sure I got home safe, even after the most casual outings. He remembered my coffee order. He listened as if he really cared when I talked about late-night deadlines and difficult clients.
He said he admired my drive and told me I inspired him.
Hearing that made something in me swell and ache. I’d worked so hard for recognition at the firm, always chasing promotions, but those words from him felt more validating than any quarterly review. For once, I wasn’t just seen as competent.
I was seen as… loved.
