That's terrifying," Maya whispered.
"I know. For me too."
They sat in that admission, the enormity of it. Two people terrified of wanting, trying anyway.
The waiter brought their pasta, breaking the tension. They ate slowly, sharing bites from each other's plates, talking about lighter things movies they loved, books they'd read, the absurdity of reality television that Maya was still embarrassed about watching.
"Wait," Ethan said, laughing. "You, a trained therapist, genuinely care about who gets the final rose?"
"It's anthropological study," Maya defended. "Understanding human behavior in artificial environments."
"Uh-huh. And the fact that you cried when Brittany got eliminated?"
"She deserved better! He was clearly not emotionally available!"
Ethan's laughter was bright and infectious, and Maya found herself laughing too, the anxiety that had been sitting on her chest all day finally loosening.
"God, I've missed this," Ethan said, his laughter fading into something softer.
"We just saw each other yesterday."
"I know. But I've been missing it since the wedding. Since you left that morning and I thought I'd never see you again."
Maya's heart stuttered. "I almost didn't answer. The postcards. I almost threw them away every time."
"Why didn't you?"
"Because" Maya struggled to articulate it. "Because part of me, the part that sounds like my mother, kept asking what I was so afraid of. And I didn't have a good answer. Just fear for fear's sake."
"And now?"
"Now I'm still afraid. But I'm here anyway."
Ethan's hand covered hers fully now, warm and solid. "That's the bravest thing I've heard in a long time."
They lingered over dessert tiramisu they shared, both their forks competing for the last bite. The restaurant began to empty around them, but neither moved to leave. It felt like the wedding night all over again that same sense of time suspending, of the world narrowing to just the two of them.
"Walk with me?" Ethan asked when they finally paid the bill. "I'm not ready for tonight to end."
"Okay."
They walked through Maya's neighborhood, past closed shops and cafes, under streetlights that turned everything amber. November had stripped the trees bare, but the night was clear and almost warm, one of those strange transitional moments between seasons.
"This is where I live," Maya said, gesturing at her building as they passed it. "Third floor, corner unit."
"Show me," Ethan said.
Maya stopped walking. "Ethan"
"Not like that." His voice was gentle. "I just I want to see your space. The place you've built. No pressure, I promise. We can keep the door open if it makes you feel safer."
Maya studied his face in the streetlight. He was serious, open, giving her every out she needed.
"Okay," she said. "But it's messy. And my mother's art is everywhere, which might be"
"Maya. It's okay. You're okay."
They climbed the three flights to her apartment, Maya's heart pounding with every step. This was intimate in a way that dinner hadn't been. This was letting him into her actual life, her space, the place where she grieved and healed and hid from the world.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside, Ethan following carefully, respectfully.
Her apartment was small but bright, even at night. The living room was dominated by her mother's paintings abstracts in blues and greens and golds, capturing emotion rather than image. Books overflowed from shelves, art supplies were stacked in corners, a blanket her grandmother had crocheted was draped over the couch.
It was unmistakably hers. Lived-in and loved.
Ethan moved slowly through the space, studying each painting with the attention of someone who understood art. He paused in front of Maya's favorite a watercolor that somehow captured the feeling of rain without depicting a single raindrop.
"Your mother was extraordinary," he said quietly.
"She was." Maya stood in the doorway, watching him. "She painted the way other people breathe. Just constantly, compulsively. She couldn't not create."
"Where's your work?"
"I don't"
"The painting from this morning. Show me."
Maya hesitated, then retrieved it from her bedroom. It was dry now, the colors muted in the way watercolors settled. She handed it to Ethan without looking at it.
He studied it for a long time. "This is how you see sunrise," he said finally. "Not literal. Emotional."
"It's not very good."
"It's honest. That's better than good." He looked up at her. "Will you paint more?"
"Maybe. I don't know." Maya wrapped her arms around herself. "It's hard. It reminds me of her, of everything I lost."
"Or maybe it connects you to everything you still have." Ethan set the painting down carefully. "She's in these walls, Maya. In these paintings, in the way you see color and light. You didn't lose her completely. She's woven into who you are."
Maya's eyes burned with tears. "That's not that's not comforting. Because she's also not here. She's not answering her phone or giving unsolicited advice or"
"I know." Ethan moved closer, not touching but present. "I know it's not the same. But maybe you can hold both things. The grief and the legacy. The loss and the love."
A sob broke loose from Maya's chest, sudden and unexpected. And then she was crying really crying, not the controlled tears she allowed in therapy but the messy, overwhelming grief she'd been holding back for two years.
Ethan pulled her into his arms, and Maya let him. Let herself be held while she fell apart in her living room surrounded by her mother's art and this man who somehow understood.
"I'm sorry," she gasped between sobs. "This is this is not how first dates are supposed to"
"Screw supposed to," Ethan said into her hair. "This is real. This is you. And I'm honored you're letting me see it."
They stood like that until Maya's tears subsided into hiccups, until she could breathe again, until the storm passed and she left her exhausted and strangely lighter.
"I'm a mess", she said pulling back and wiping her face.