The first yes

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The world around them felt hushed, like the city itself was catching its breath. The streetlights flickered in the damp night air, their glow reflecting off the wet pavement. The scent of rain still lingered, fresh and clean, wrapping around them as they sat side by side on the park bench.

She wasn't sure how they ended up here. One minute, she was standing at the entrance to her apartment building, not quite ready to say goodnight. The next, they were walking through the quiet streets, exchanging thoughts that felt heavier than the night sky above them.

It should have felt strange, being with him like this. But it didn't.

He was steady, present in a way that made her feel safe, even in the unfamiliar.

And yet, something in her still hesitated.

"Afraid of the first step," she echoed his earlier words, her voice softer now. "Maybe you're right."

He turned his head toward her, studying her like he was waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "And what if I am?"

She let out a small breath, hugging his jacket tighter around herself. "Then maybe it's time to stop waiting and start doing."

The words tasted foreign, like they belonged to someone bolder, someone who wasn't so used to second-guessing every decision. But for once, she wanted to believe them.

A slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "What would that look like?"

She thought about it. About the way life had felt stagnant lately, as if she were standing still while the world kept moving. She wanted more than that. She wanted to say yes—to opportunities, to risks, to the possibility of something real.

"It looks like not holding myself back anymore," she admitted. "It looks like saying yes."

His expression shifted, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. "Just yes?"

She turned toward him, meeting his gaze. "Just yes."

For a moment, silence stretched between them, charged with something neither of them had the words for. Then, he extended his pinky toward her, a playful challenge in his expression.

"Pinky promise?"

She arched an eyebrow, amused. "Are we twelve?"

He wiggled his finger. "Come on. You can't break a pinky promise."

Despite herself, she laughed. And then, before she could overthink it, she linked her pinky with his.

"Fine. Pinky promise."

Their fingers lingered for a moment before letting go, and something about that small exchange felt like the beginning of something bigger.

"So," he said, leaning back. "If we're starting now, what's the first thing we say yes to?"

She bit her lip, considering. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she turned to him and said, "Take me somewhere. Somewhere that means something to you."

He blinked, clearly not expecting that. "Right now?"

"Yes."

A slow grin spread across his face. "Okay," he said, standing. "Come on."

She followed without hesitation.

---

They walked through the quiet streets, the city wrapped in its post-rain stillness. The air was crisp, the distant hum of traffic the only reminder that the world hadn't completely paused for them.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see," he replied, a touch of mystery in his voice.

She studied him as they walked. There was something different about him now—more purposeful. Whatever this place was, it mattered to him.

After several turns, they arrived at a small, tucked-away music store. The sign above the door was faded, and the inside was dark, but there was something nostalgic about it, as if the walls held stories worth telling.

"A music store?" she asked, intrigued.

He nodded, stepping closer to the window. "I used to come here a lot when I was younger. The owner, Mr. Dawson, let me hang around even when I couldn't afford anything. He taught me a few things on the guitar."

Her lips parted slightly in surprise. "You never told me you played."

He let out a small chuckle. "I don't. Not really. I wanted to, but life got in the way."

She looked at him then, really looked at him. There was something almost wistful in his expression, like he was staring at a version of himself that still stood on the other side of that glass.

Without thinking, she reached out and took his hand. He stiffened slightly, glancing down at their joined fingers, but didn't pull away.

"Maybe it's time to change that," she said softly.

His gaze lifted to hers, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Maybe it is."

The world around them felt impossibly quiet, as if the universe was holding its breath.

Then, after a long moment, she tugged at his hand. "Come on," she said. "The night's not over yet."

He didn't argue. He just followed.

---

They ended up at a late-night café, the kind that never really closed, where the scent of coffee lingered in the air like a quiet promise.

He ordered for both of them—black coffee for him, something sweeter for her. They sat in a booth by the window, the city stretching out beyond the glass.

"So," she said, wrapping her hands around her cup, "what else haven't you done?"

He smirked. "That's a long list."

"I have time."

He exhaled, as if debating how much to say. "I never learned how to swim."

Her eyes widened. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious," he admitted, stirring his coffee. "Just never got around to it."

She shook her head, grinning. "Alright. That's another thing we're adding to the list."

He arched an eyebrow. "The list?"

"The things we say yes to," she clarified. "You learning to swim. Me going skydiving. You getting that guitar."

His smile softened. "Sounds like you're planning on sticking around long enough to make sure all that happens."

She faltered slightly, caught off guard by the weight of his words.

Was she?

She looked at him—the way his dark eyes held something steady, something real.

"Yeah," she said, her voice quieter now. "I think I am."

Something shifted between them then, something unspoken yet deeply understood.

She wasn't afraid of the first step anymore.

Not with him.

And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

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