The first time I met Daniel was in a coffee shop just outside Brighton Hill. He was juggling a phone call, a pastry bag, and a wallet that refused to cooperate. When his credit cards scattered to the floor, I knelt to help him.
“Thanks,” he said sheepishly. “I swear I’m not usually this much of a disaster.”
I smiled. “Hey, we’ve all had those days.”
That’s how it started. Daniel had this steady, calming presence that felt like a balm to the chaos I was used to. He remembered I liked cinnamon in my latte, always texted to check if I got home safely, and never made me feel like I had to earn his affection.
After years of dating emotionally unavailable men who treated relationships like temporary distractions, Daniel felt like something solid. Like home.
“I have a son,” he told me over dinner on our third date. “Evan. He’s thirteen. His mom left when he was eight. It’s been just the two of us for a while.”
“I’d love to meet him,” I said.
His face lit up. “Seriously? Most women run.”
