Not With Haste

The dessert was something I couldn’t pronounce—delicate layers stacked with a precision that made me hesitate before stabbing my fork into it. Ian didn’t. He took one bite and groaned loud enough that the couple two tables over glanced our way.

“Worth the calories,” he said around a mouthful.

I smirked. “You count calories?”

“Nope.” He forked another piece. “That’s why it’s worth it.”

I found myself laughing—not a polite chuckle, not a reflex. A real laugh that left my chest a little lighter than it had been all day. We left the restaurant with our bags still in tow, the city cool and damp around us. A mist clung to the pavement, halos around the streetlights. Ian spotted the park first—a cluster of swings and slides, the kind of cheap plastic playground meant for toddlers, fenced in by black iron rails.