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I held her gaze, waiting for her reaction.
A flicker of surprise crossed her face, and she quickly looked down, cheeks coloring just a bit.
She laughed softly, the sound warm and genuine, but I sensed her unease.
“I think you’re trying to make me blush,” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, if I am, it’s working,” I teased, trying to keep things light.
We talked about everything—her boutique, the town’s quirks, her love of vintage clothing.
But I could tell she was holding back, skirting around anything that dipped below the surface.
I wanted her to feel safe, but a part of me ached to know more.
To understand the shadows that occasionally flitted through her expression.
Finally, when the conversation lulled, I decided to offer a piece of myself first, hoping it might encourage her to do the same.
“So,” I began, running a hand through my hair. “Dating history. Want to swap stories?”
I gave her a lopsided grin, aiming for casual, though the question held more weight than I wanted to admit.
Her brows lifted, eyes flicking up to meet mine, cautious and curious.
“You first,” she said, crossing her arms on the table, leaning forward slightly.
I leaned back, gathering my thoughts.
“All right, but I’ll warn you—it’s probably going to be a little boring. My dating history is… bland. Lots of polite dinners, plenty of nice girls who could have checked every box. But the truth is, none of them really did it for me. They were beautiful, successful, everything my family could approve of, but—” I paused, trying to find the right words, watching her closely.
Tori’s eyes softened, as though she could sense the vulnerability in what I was saying.
“But what?” she asked softly.
“But I didn’t feel anything. Not really.”
I looked down, remembering those nights in expensive restaurants, the surface-level conversations, the pleasant but vacant dates.
I continued, “I guess I just… wasn’t interested in pretending with them. It wasn’t enough for me. I’d rather wait for something real.”
I glanced up at her, hoping she understood what I wasn’t saying.
She seemed to consider this, her gaze drifting out the window, her fingers tracing the edge of her glass.
“I know what that’s like,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Do you?” I pressed, sensing this was as close as she’d come to opening up.
Her eyes flicked back to mine, wary but vulnerable.
“After my last relationship… I told myself I’d focus on my career. I needed to rebuild my life, to make something of my own,” Tori said.
The words hung between us, and I could feel the weight of what she wasn’t saying.
She’d been hurt, scarred by something or someone in her past, and the resolve in her voice was laced with the echo of old wounds.
“Tori,” I said softly, my voice firm with the weight of my intentions. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to. But I want you to know, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”