Delia was ready twenty minutes early and spent fifteen of them trying to make her hair look as though she had spent less time on it.
The curls at the front refused the arrangement she wanted. She pinned one back, removed the pin, and left both sides loose. In the bedroom mirror, the green dress she had packed for a different evening looked unfamiliar without the shoes she had intended to wear with it. She put on her flat sandals anyway.
Her phone lay on the bed. Yasmin had sent a message wishing her a good evening, followed by a reminder that she did not owe anyone a report. Delia had told her about the date that morning, while her friend was eating breakfast between tasks. Yasmin’s first question had been whether the man knew why she was there. When Delia said yes, her friend had simply said, “Good. I hope the food’s decent.”
It was exactly enough.
She took a light jacket and left the cottage before she could change clothes.
Soren stood outside The Lantern with his hands in his pockets. He had shaved the edges of his beard and put on a clean blue shirt. The difference from his working clothes was slight, but it made Delia’s stomach tighten.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.”
He looked at her for a moment too long to be accidental.
“You look lovely.”
“Thank you.”
She wanted to return the compliment and found that the words had become strangely difficult. She settled for touching his sleeve as they started walking.
The restaurant was small, noisy, and full enough that the person at the door had to move two menus before finding their booking. Soren had reserved a table by the wall. Delia appreciated the practical act more than she expected. No wandering between places, no asking her to decide everything because he didn’t mind.
They sat opposite each other beneath a framed photograph of a fishing boat.
“Too loud?” he asked.
“No. I like it.”
She did. The room gave them cover. Nobody could hear each careful first sentence unless they made an effort.
When the menus arrived, Soren opened his and immediately closed it again.
“You already know?” Delia asked.
“I usually have the same thing.”
“Always?”
“Nearly.”
“What if something else is better?”
“What if it isn’t?”
She looked at him over the top of her menu. “That’s a very cautious philosophy for a man who bought a cinema.”
“I used up my recklessness there.”
She chose something she hadn’t eaten before, then worried it would be difficult to manage elegantly. The concern annoyed her enough that she kept the order.
They talked about the weather until Delia realized they were talking about the weather and laughed.
“What?” he asked.
“We’ve already been soaked together. We can probably move on.”
“Right.” He leaned back. “What would you like to know?”
She considered him. “What are you bad at?”
“Starting with the flattering questions.”
“You already know I can’t cook.”
“That’s true.” He looked toward the ceiling. “Throwing things away.”
“How bad?”
“There are cables in a drawer upstairs for equipment I no longer own.”
“That’s fairly normal.”
“I know which equipment they belonged to.”
“Less normal.”
“And I sometimes think I might need it again.”
She laughed. “All right. That qualifies.”
He asked the question back. She thought about saying impatience, which sounded almost respectable, or directions, which would be harmless.
“I can turn helping into taking over,” she said.
He waited.
“If someone does something differently from how I would do it, I start offering suggestions. Then somehow I’m doing it.”
“Even if they didn’t ask?”
“Especially if they’re doing it slowly.”
He smiled, but she could see him taking in the answer.
“Useful warning.”
“I regretted it as soon as I said it.”
“Too late now.”
“The worst time was a school visit,” she said. “A colleague had planned the activity. Perfectly good activity. I thought the order was wrong.”
“What did you do?”
“Rearranged the materials before everyone arrived.”
He made a small sympathetic sound, then seemed to reconsider whom he was sympathizing with.
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly.”
“Did it go badly?”
“The children enjoyed it. My colleague didn’t speak to me properly for a week.”
“Did you apologize?”
“Eventually. First I explained why my version worked.”
Soren winced.
“I know.”
“What happened?”
“She told me that wasn’t the point. Very slowly, as though I were one of the children.”
Delia could still remember the heat in her face, the indignation that had taken an entire evening to turn into embarrassment. She had bought her colleague a coffee the next morning, then understood halfway through handing it over that coffee could not do the apologizing for her.
“I got there in the end,” she said.
“Do you still work together?”
“Yes. She tells me to put my hands in my pockets when she’s setting something up.”
He laughed. “Does it help?”
“Occasionally.”
The server came to refill their water. Delia thanked her and moved her glass away from the edge without thinking. Soren watched the movement, then carefully moved his own glass toward the middle of the table.
“Don’t start,” she said.
“I’ve said nothing.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She smiled despite herself. “Your turn. Something worse than a drawer full of cables.”
He considered, rubbing a finger along the stem of his glass.
“I kept a film on for an extra week because I thought people ought to see it.”
“Did they?”
“Not enough of them.”
“Was it good?”
“I still think so.”
“Then perhaps you were right.”
“Perhaps. I was also angry with people for wanting something else, which wasn’t especially useful.”
“Did you stop being angry?”
“Mostly.”
She liked the answer better than a complete conversion. He looked toward the kitchen, where their plates were being collected, and she studied the line of his profile for a second before he turned back.
Their food arrived. Delia discovered that her choice was manageable if she stopped worrying about it. Soren ate his familiar order with obvious satisfaction. She asked whether she could try some, and he moved the plate toward her.
She tasted it.
“Well?”
“Good.”
He looked pleased.
“Not so good I’d eat it every time.”
“There it is.”
She offered him a bite of hers. He tried it, considered, and admitted it was better than he expected.
“Will you order it next time?”
“Let’s not rush.”
She liked the resistance. It was small and unimportant, but he did not become more agreeable because they were on a date. She could feel herself relaxing into the space between liking someone and approving every preference he had.
A group at the next table began discussing a film currently showing at another cinema. One person declared that all old movies were boring. Soren’s eyes moved involuntarily toward the voice.
Delia caught it.
“Don’t.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You leaned.”
“I shifted.”
She laughed. “Do you argue with customers?”
“Sometimes.”
“That sounds bad for business.”
“Depends on the customer.”
“And whether they’re wrong?”
“That helps.”
He admitted that he had once kept a conversation going so long that his assistant switched off half the foyer lights around them. Delia asked what the argument had been about. He began explaining, stopped when he saw her expression, and shook his head.
“No. You’ll be here until closing.”
“I asked.”
“Yes, but I should learn from experience.”
She reached for her water, smiling. “Give me the short version.”
He did, with visible effort. She understood enough to disagree with one part, and his answering interest was immediate. He set down his fork and asked why.
She told him. He listened, challenged a detail, then conceded the larger point with a reluctant tilt of his head.
“You hate losing,” she said.
“I haven’t lost. I’ve adjusted.”
She laughed so hard that the person at the next table glanced over.
For a while, the evening stopped feeling like a first date. She forgot to consider how she looked when she ate, whether her laugh was too loud, what her left hand looked like without its ring. Then the person clearing their plates asked whether they were celebrating anything, and the awareness returned all at once.
“No,” Delia said, too quickly.
The person nodded and offered dessert menus. Soren accepted one, then looked at her.
“Would you like anything?”
She almost said she was fine.
“Yes. Actually.”
He passed her the menu. He didn’t ask what had happened to her expression. She was grateful, though she knew he had seen it.
They shared a dessert because neither wanted a whole one. Soren pushed the plate to the center and gave her the spoon with the longer handle. Delia took the first bite, discovered it was richer than she expected, and handed him the plate without comment. He tasted it and made the same surprised face.
“Should have believed the description,” he said.
She nodded, unable to speak around the mouthful.
When the bill came, he reached for it.
“I asked you,” he said.
“I know. I’d like to pay my half.”
He looked at her, then handed it over so she could see.
“All right.”
She put her card beside his and went back to the last spoonful of dessert.
Outside, the evening had cooled. A breeze moved down the street, carrying the smell of the harbor. Delia put on her jacket. Soren waited while she freed the lining caught in one sleeve.
“Walk?” he asked.
“Yes.”
They took the longer way toward the cottage, along streets where the shops had closed and the upstairs windows glowed. At one corner a television was visible through thin curtains. Someone was watching a game show, the contestants’ faces bright and anxious.
Soren said he had lived in cities before moving to Gullhaven. Delia asked whether he missed them.
“Sometimes. Being able to go somewhere and not know anyone. Better food at midnight.”
“What don’t you miss?”
“Traffic. Noise when I want quiet.”
“I like city noise,” she said. “Mostly.”
“Really?”
“It makes being alone feel less empty.”
He considered that without answering immediately.
“I like being able to hear the sea from upstairs when the wind’s right,” he said.
“Even in winter?”
“Especially then. Though it does make the windows rattle.”
She pictured his apartment above the cinema. She had seen the separate entrance beside the building, a narrow door with a worn step. The image of him climbing those stairs at the end of a night felt private enough that she looked away.
At the next crossing, a car turned unexpectedly. Soren stopped and held out his hand, palm up, without touching her. She had already stopped too. After the car passed, she put her hand in his.
He looked down, then at her.
They crossed together.
His hand was warm, the skin a little rough against hers. She expected the contact to feel dramatic. Instead it felt immediate and absorbing, something she could keep noticing from one step to the next. His thumb moved once along the side of her finger.
She could not have said what they talked about for the next street.
Near the cottage lane, the sidewalk narrowed. They released hands to let two people pass, then took them again without discussing it. Delia felt herself smile into the dark.
At the bottom of the path they stopped beneath a light fixed to the neighboring building. The cottage was a short walk uphill. She could see the lamp she had left on through its window.
“I had a good evening,” he said.
“So did I.”
He stood close enough that she could see a tiny crease in his collar. His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth and back. Delia’s breath caught.
A dog barked behind them. Its owner came around the corner, apologizing as the lead stretched across the path. They stepped apart to let them through. The dog sniffed Delia’s sandal, decided she was uninteresting, and moved on.
The interruption gave her a moment to think, and thinking made her nervous.
Soren waited. He hadn’t stepped back into the space between them.
“I think I want to go slowly,” she said.
His expression changed, not with offense but with a small, visible effort to adjust.
“All right.”
“I don’t mean—”
“You don’t have to explain it now.”
She looked at him. He sounded kind, but not entirely unaffected. That helped more than effortless understanding would have.
“I want to see you tomorrow,” she said.
His smile returned. “Good.”
“After work? Yours, I mean.”
“There’s the public show at seven. I can finish up afterward. We could watch something short. If you’re not tired of the place.”
“I’m not.”
“All right.”
She squeezed his hand once before letting go. Then she walked up the path, aware of him behind her until she turned at the cottage door.
He lifted a hand and began walking back toward town.
Inside, she leaned against the door without switching on another light. Her mouth felt oddly awake, as if the kiss she hadn’t taken had left a physical trace.
She went to the window. He was out of sight now.
The room held her book, her shoes, the mug she had left by the sink. She took off her jacket, hung it over the chair, and ran her fingers through the wind-tangled ends of her hair.
On the bedside table, her phone showed the time. It was not late. She could still call Yasmin, could report that dinner had been good and the man had not done anything alarming. Instead she opened their message thread and typed one sentence.
The food was decent.
Then she added, before her friend could answer:
I’m seeing him tomorrow.