The thing about emotions is… they sneak up on you. Like you're just vibing with a latte and a to-do list, and suddenly, you're fantasizing about kissing your new boss under office mood lighting. It had been weeks since the dinner with Theo. We'd texted a lot. Shared inside jokes. Lunches. Work victories. Silly memes. My heart had started doing that annoying fluttering thing every time his name lit up my screen. So when we finished another quiet night of grabbing dinner and walking by the waterfront, and he turned to say goodnight with that soft smile of his… I moved in. Just like that. No warning. No overthinking for once. I leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were warm, and for a second—just a second—he kissed me back. Then he gently pulled away.
My heart sank before I could even register the motion. "Oh. Um. Sorry. I thought—"
"No, Nilla," he said quickly, voice low and kind. "Don't apologize. I wanted to. Trust me."
I blinked, stunned, because I hadn't expected that. "Then… why stop?"
He hesitated, then stepped back, looking up at the night sky as if choosing his words.
"Because you're still healing," he said. "And you deserve to fall in love when it's not about escaping pain. I don't want to be the rebound guy. I want to be real. But that only works if you're whole—*not* just looking for someone to help you feel better."
The words hit like a hug and a slap at the same time.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. "So what? I'm broken?"
"No," he said softly, looking me in the eye. "You're growing. And I like you too much to interrupt that."
Tears burned at the back of my eyes, which felt dumb because—God, he was being good. *Too good.* And somehow, that made it hurt worse.
I gave a shaky laugh. "Why do you have to be so mature and patient? Couldn't you have just been an ass?"
He smiled, a little sad. "Where's the fun in that?"
I nodded, exhaled, and shoved my hands in my coat pockets. "I'm gonna go. Thank you. For being honest."
"Always."
***
I didn't cry on the walk back to Sarah's place. But the moment I walked in and she looked up from her skincare routine with that "what did he do" face, the dam broke.
"I tried to kiss him," I said, dramatically flopping onto the couch and groaning into a throw pillow.
"Did he kiss back?" she asked, sitting beside me and offering a pint of ice cream like a certified emotional support BFF.
"Yes. For a second. Then he gave me a speech about healing and growth and how he didn't want to mess me up."
She blinked. "...Damn. That's hot."
"I *know*! I wanted to be mad, but now I just feel like I'm in a Hallmark movie that decided to get real on me."
Sarah snorted. "Girl, you tried to jump to chapter twenty when you're still rewriting chapter three."
I sighed. "I know. He's right. I *am* still figuring myself out."
She handed me a spoon. "So, what are we doing tonight?"
"Ice cream and pity party?"
"Wrong. Ice cream and *recovery party*. Because you didn't beg for crumbs—you asked for what you wanted. That's growth. And also? That man clearly likes you. You're just leveling up first."
I laughed. "You always know how to make me feel less pathetic."
"I know. It's in the best friend contract. Article 3, paragraph 5."
We clinked our spoons together and settled in under a blanket to watch a trashy dating show that made both of us feel wildly superior.
And for the first time in a long time… I didn't feel like I needed someone else to save me.
I was learning how to do it myself.
*Three Weeks Later*
Okay, confession: I had started enjoying being single. It was weird. I always thought post-breakup life would mean eating frozen meals in sweatpants while sad Taylor Swift songs narrated my downfall. But in reality? I was thriving. I got a haircut. Started Pilates. I even signed up for therapy—which, yes, was uncomfortable, and also yes, was kind of life-changing. Sarah beamed every time I came home and didn't immediately want to rage or cry about something. Instead, we started this new ritual: Thursday night self-care. Facemasks, cocktails, journaling, maybe the occasional yelling at our exes' social media photos. It was healing.
And work?
Let's just say I had my boss's boss asking me to lead a presentation next quarter. But of course… even with all that—there was still *him*.
Theo.
We hadn't kissed again. Hadn't crossed that line. But the connection between us felt stronger than ever. He'd text to check in after long meetings. Drop off coffee with little notes when he knew I had a tough day. He never pushed. Never flirted too far. Just waited.
***
Meanwhile, across town… Theo Anderson sat at his desk, ignoring the unread emails piling in and staring at a photo on his shelf. It was his parents at a black-tie gala—both perfectly polished, perfectly cold. A reminder of what love *wasn't.* He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
His assistant popped her head in. "Sir, your father called again. Wants to confirm you're attending the charity event next weekend."
He barely looked up. "Tell him I'll send a check instead."
The door clicked shut behind her. He turned back to his desk, eyes falling on the little polaroid of Nilla from her work anniversary lunch—laughing, half-covered in frosting, absolutely radiant. He didn't just like her. He was falling for her. But if there was one thing he'd learned growing up in a house of conditional love and manipulation, it was this:
*You don't build a real relationship on broken ground.*
She needed space. She needed to know who she was *without* him. Not as a reaction to James. Not as someone chasing healing through distraction. But as *Nilla Stone.* When she was ready… if she still wanted him… then he'd be there.
And if not?
Well, he'd still be proud he helped someone he cared about find her way back to herself.
***
Back at Sarah's apartment, I was staring in the mirror after a bubble bath, toweling my hair dry when Sarah popped her head in.
"You're glowing."
"Am I?" I asked, genuinely surprised.
She nodded. "You're finally looking like someone who knows she deserves love—whether she has it or not."
I smiled at my reflection. "I think… I like me. That's new."
"And sexy as hell," Sarah added.
I laughed, throwing the towel at her. "You're ridiculous."
"And you're radiant. So what now, Queen Nilla?"
I looked at my phone. I could text Theo. Ask him to meet up. Not to kiss. Not to rush. Just to talk. To *really* talk. And this time—not from a place of sadness or confusion. But from a place of strength. So I opened a new message, smiled, and typed:
> *Want to grab coffee this weekend? Just you, me, and no emotional chaos?*
His reply came within seconds:
> *I'd love that.*