The call came through just as Lena was seriously considering throwing her phone out the window.
She'd stared at Daniel's message—Can we talk?—for seventeen excruciating minutes before typing: Yeah. We can talk.
Her phone rang immediately. The sound startled her so badly, she nearly dropped it.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched between them, taut and fragile, filled only by Daniel's uneven breathing and the faint hum of late-night traffic outside Lena's apartment window.
"Hi," he finally said, his voice rough—like he hadn't slept in days.
Lena closed her eyes and pressed the phone tighter to her ear. "Hi."
Another pause.
She could picture him perfectly—probably sitting on that stupid fire escape of his, running a hand through already-messy hair, the soft blue glow of his phone reflecting in his tired eyes.
Daniel exhaled. "I don't know how to do this."
"Do what?"
"Any of it." His voice cracked. "Pretending I don't— That we're just—"
Lena's grip tightened until her knuckles ached. "Friends?"
"Is that what we are?"
The question hung in the air between them—delicate, dangerous, and unanswerable.
Lena didn't remember deciding to go.
One minute she was curled up in bed with the phone to her ear like a lifeline. The next, she was yanking open drawers, shoving clothes into a duffel bag, scrawling a rushed note for Mr. Puddles' sitter, and bolting out the door.
By the time the train pulled out of the station, her heart was pounding so loud it drowned out every rational thought.
"You're where?" Daniel's voice crackled through the speaker.
"On my way to you," she said, pressing a hand to her chest, as if she could quiet the storm inside her.
A beat.
"You hate traveling."
"I know."
"You once said airports were 'humanity's greatest failure.'"
"I stand by that."
He laughed—sudden, surprised, bright—and the sound lit something in her chest she hadn't realized had gone dark.
"You're insane."
Lena leaned her forehead against the window, watching the landscape blur past in streaks of green and gold. "Yeah. I think I am."
The six-hour ride gave her far too much time to spiral.
What was she doing?
They'd never met in person. What if this was a mistake? What if she wasn't what he expected? What if—
Her phone buzzed.
Daniel:Just so you know, I'm currently stress-cleaning my apartment. My books are now alphabetized by emotional impact.
She smiled despite herself.
Lena:What's the most emotionally impactful book?
Daniel:Goodnight Moon. That shit's deep.
Lena laughed, and just like that, the tension in her chest loosened.
The station was chaos.
Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. People swarmed the platform like ants. Her bag dug into her shoulder.
Then—
"Lena."
She turned.
There he was.
Exactly like his video calls—messy hair, slightly crooked nose, tired eyes crinkled at the corners—but more. More real. More human. More here.
He shifted nervously on his feet, clutching a single sunflower like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.
"You came," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah."
They stood there, barely two feet apart, neither quite sure how to cross the final inches.
Daniel swallowed. "Can I—?"
Lena stepped forward and hugged him.
He smelled like citrus and laundry detergent and something warm and familiar and unmistakably Daniel. His arms wrapped around her, grounding her. She buried her face in his shoulder and thought:
Oh. This is what home feels like.
Daniel's apartment was small and cluttered—books stacked on windowsills, on the floor, even on the microwave. A lopsided pottery bowl sat on the coffee table like it was silently judging her.
Lena pointed at it. "That's worse than I imagined."
Daniel groaned. "It's a work in progress."
"It looks like it's planning my murder."
"That's because it is."
They both grinned, and for a second, the world was light again.
Then quiet fell.
"Do you want tea or—" Daniel started.
"Why did you send me that song?" she asked.
He froze.
Daniel let out a breath. "Because I'm an idiot."
"That's not an answer."
"I know." He ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even worse. "I didn't know how to say it. So I found a song that could say it for me."
Lena's heart thudded. "And what exactly were you trying to say?"
He looked at her—really looked—and said, "That I'm terrified."
She blinked. "Me too."
They sat on opposite ends of his couch, knees nearly touching. The sunlight had shifted to late afternoon gold, casting soft shadows across the floor.
"What happens now?" Daniel asked.
Lena studied him. The way his fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against his thigh. The uncertain tilt of his mouth. The small scar above his eyebrow she'd never noticed on screen. She thought of every late-night call. Every sentence that had meant more than it let on. Every time she'd almost said it.
Every time he almost had too.
She reached across the space between them and took his hand.