You sit across from me, one eyebrow raised in a challenge, the corners of your mouth twitching into that mischievous smile I know too well.
“Guess what I’m thinking,” you say, your voice teasing, light as air.
I lean back in my chair, studying you like I’m about to solve some ancient riddle. The café around us hums with soft conversations and the clinking of coffee cups, but all I can hear is the steady drum of my heart and the weight of the moment between us.
You tap your fingers on the table, waiting.
I could guess the obvious. Maybe you’re thinking about the cinnamon roll you ordered but haven’t touched, or the meeting you were dreading all morning. Maybe it’s something simple, something fleeting. But something tells me this moment matters. That you’re waiting for me to read between the lines, not just skim the surface.
I could say, “You’re thinking about the weather,” or “You’re wondering if you left your car lights on.”
But that’s not it.
You’re thinking about us.
I can feel it in the way your eyes soften when you look at me, in the way you fiddle with your bracelet the way you always do when you’re nervous. We’ve been orbiting around something bigger than small talk for a while now, daring each other to cross that invisible line, pretending it’s not there.
I smile and lean forward, mirroring your posture, my elbows resting on the table.
“You’re thinking about how long we’ve been dancing around this,” I say quietly. “About how maybe it’s time to stop pretending.”
Your smile freezes for a split second—just long enough to confirm I’m right—and then it widens, full of relief and something else. Hope.
“Maybe,” you say, voice soft now. “Maybe I’m thinking about how crazy it is that we’ve known each other this long, and it still feels like we’re just getting started.”
I nod, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. It does feel like that—like every moment before this one was just a prologue. And now the real story is about to begin.
The air between us crackles with possibility. I wonder if you can hear it too.
You toy with your coffee cup, spinning it slowly, your fingers tracing lazy circles around the rim. I reach out instinctively, brushing your hand with mine. The touch is light, almost accidental—but not quite.
You don’t pull away.
“Guess what I’m thinking now,” you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the hum of the café.
I laugh under my breath, heart thundering. I don’t need to guess. I know.
“You’re thinking you want me to kiss you,” I say, feeling bolder now, buoyed by the way your eyes sparkle.
You don’t answer. You don’t have to.
I stand, moving around the table in one heartbeat, two. You look up at me, eyes wide, breath catching slightly, and for a moment I just stand there, memorizing the way you look when you’re on the edge of something new, something scary and beautiful all at once.
Then I bend down and kiss you.
It’s gentle at first, tentative, but you respond immediately, your hand reaching up to tangle in my hair. The café, the noise, the whole spinning world disappears. It’s just us. Just this.
When we pull apart, you laugh—a sound so pure and perfect it lodges itself in my chest.
“I was thinking that,” you admit, grinning. “But I was also thinking it was about time.”
We sit back down, hands still tangled together, and I realize the guessing game is over. No more wondering, no more hesitations. Just the two of us, finally on the same page, writing the rest of our story together.
And for once, I don’t have to guess what you’re thinking.
Because I’m thinking it too.
