Page 23 of The Cyrano Situation

"It's how I process uncertainty," I admitted. "Numbers are reliable. Emotions are... less so."

Hart reached across the table and took both my hands in his. "And what do your calculations say about this? About us?"

I met his gaze, allowing myself to really look at him without the protective shield of professional distance I'd maintained for so long.

Hart, with his perfect jawline and the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood skateboarding accident.

Hart with his easy charm and genuine kindness that extended to helping a socially awkward colleague text a potential romantic interest, even when, as I now understood, he had feelings of his own.

"My calculations are inconclusive," I said softly. "This falls outside the range of my existing data sets."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Hart asked, his thumbs tracing patterns on my wrists in a way that made it difficult to maintain coherent thought.

"Good, I think. It means we're writing a new story rather than following a predictable pattern."

Hart smiled, the kind of smile that transformed his entire face and had been known to convince reluctant authors to agree to cross-country book tours. "I like that. Our story. Though I have to say, we've already hit a few classic tropes. Friends to lovers. Workplace romance. The Cyrano situation."

"Don't forget 'oblivious idiots who could have been together years ago if either had the emotional intelligence to recognize their feelings,'" I added dryly.

"That's not a trope, that's just us being stupid," Hart laughed. He leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. "Cyril, I need to ask you something important."

My heart rate accelerated. "Yes?"

"Those texts to Jules—the thoughts, the feelings behind them—were they real? Or were you just going through the motions because you thought you should be interested in someone?"

The question deserved honesty, so I considered it carefully.

"The appreciation was genuine. Jules is intelligent, kind, and we share many interests.

In another timeline, perhaps we could have had something meaningful.

" I squeezed Hart's hands. "But looking back, I think I was trying to follow a script of what my romantic life should look like, rather than acknowledging what—and who—I truly wanted. "

"And what do you truly want?" Hart asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

The answer came with surprising ease. "You. It's always been you, Hart. Even when I was convincing myself it was impossible, even when I was directing my attention elsewhere. Like a compass that keeps returning to true north, regardless of temporary diversions."

Hart's eyes widened slightly. "That was poetic."

"I've been texting with a very good writer for weeks now," I said with a small smile. "Some of it was bound to rub off on me."

"Cyril Nolan, are you flirting with me?" Hart asked, delight evident in his voice.

"I'm attempting to. Is it working?"

"Definitely." Hart leaned closer. "And for the record, I want you, too.

Not the version of you that you think should exist but the careful editor who overthinks everything and analyses romance like it's a manuscript that needs revision.

I want the real you with all your statistics and literary references and the way you organize the office coffee supplies by caffeine content. "

"That's just logical," I protested weakly.

"It's adorkable," Hart corrected. "You're adorable. And brilliant. And I've been halfway in love with you since you spent an entire editorial meeting defending the use of semicolons in contemporary fiction."

"They're an underappreciated punctuation mark with significant syntactic utility," I said automatically.

"See? That. That right there." Hart's expression was so tender it made my chest ache. "I love how passionate you get about things most people would never notice."

The word "love" hung between us, neither of us acknowledging its weight directly, but both aware of its presence.

"So what happens now?" I asked, falling back on practical questions when emotions threatened to overwhelm me.

"Now?" Hart considered. "Now we eat these chocolate croissants that we've been ignoring. Then we figure out how to navigate being colleagues and... whatever we're becoming. We take Jules's advice and write our own story, preferably one with a happy ending."

"I'm not very good at happy endings," I admitted. "I tend to anticipate complications."

"Then it's fortunate that I'm excellent at publicity and spin," Hart said with a grin. "Between your attention to detail and my optimism, we should balance out nicely."

I found myself smiling back, a lightness expanding in my chest that felt foreign but welcome. "A complementary partnership."

"Exactly." Hart broke off a piece of his croissant and offered it to me. "To new beginnings?"

I accepted the pastry, our fingers brushing. "To statistical anomalies and literary tropes."

"To us," Hart said simply, and leaned across the table to kiss me.

This kiss was different from our first—less urgent, more deliberate.

A promise rather than a revelation. I cataloged every sensation: the taste of chocolate, the warmth of his lips, the faint scent of his cologne.

For once, I didn't analyze or overthink; I simply experienced the moment in its fullness.

When we separated, Hart's eyes were bright. "You know, for someone who claims to be bad at romance, you're surprisingly good at kissing."

"Perhaps my skill set is more diverse than previously documented," I suggested.

"I look forward to conducting further research," Hart said, his smile promising things that made my pulse quicken.

Outside the coffee shop window, I could see Jules chatting with Ari, who had apparently taken a break. They were laughing, Jules gesturing animatedly as he explained something. A new story beginning as ours shifted into its next chapter.

"Hart," I said, suddenly serious, "thank you."

"For what?"

"For seeing me. The real me, not just who I thought I should be."

Hart reached out and brushed a strand of hair from my forehead, his touch gentle. "Thank you for letting me see you. And for seeing me as more than just the charming publicity guy."

"You are charming," I pointed out. "That's an objective fact, not a limitation."

"And you're brilliant. That's also a fact." He intertwined our fingers. "Maybe that's the moral of our Cyrano story—we don't need to be someone else to be loved. We just need to be brave enough to be ourselves."

As literary conclusions went, it wasn't particularly original. But sitting there with Hart, watching the late afternoon light cast patterns across our joined hands, I found I didn't mind the lack of originality. Some tropes became classics for a reason.

"I can work with that ending," I said, and leaned in to kiss him again.