the doorman

The evening light, filtered pale gold through the textured blinds of Olivia's living room, fell across Maya's face as she stirred. For a moment, she was disoriented, the unfamiliar plushness of the sofa cushion beneath her cheek and the faint, lingering scent of sandalwood in the air painting a scene that wasn't quite home, but felt…comfortable. Then, the memories of the previous evening trickled back, warm and a little fuzzy, like fragments of a pleasant dream. Dinner at that charming Italian place with the exposed brick, the easy laughter that flowed between them, the shared bottle of Chianti that had left her delightfully lightheaded, and then… here. Olivia's apartment.

She shifted, stretching her limbs carefully under the throw draped over her. The apartment was quiet, a Sunday morning stillness hanging in the air, punctuated only by the distant hum of city life waking up. Olivia wasn't here. She must have already left for her evening run, she surmised, picturing her in her running gear, her brow furrowed in concentration as she pounded the pavement. A small smile touched her lips. She was a person of routines, Olivia. Predictable in the best possible way.

Sitting up slowly, she smoothed down the slightly rumpled linen dress she'd worn last night. It was a testament to how at ease she'd felt that she hadn't even considered changing into something more comfortable. She'd just… stayed. They'd talked for hours before she finally passed out, it felt like, curled up on opposite ends of this very sofa, about books and movies and dreams and disappointments, about everything and yet, somehow, nothing truly revealing. It was a gentle, meandering conversation, the kind that allowed silences to bloom and connection to deepen without pressure.

And that was the crux, wasn't it? There had been no pressure. No expectation. No… touch, really. Not beyond the polite brush of hands when he'd gestured her inside, or a brief, almost formal, good morning hug at the door before he'd indicated the sofa, offering her blankets and pillows with a quiet, almost apologetic, 'I'm so sorry it's not more comfortable.' Her mind stayed remembering the events of the night before but by bit

She wasn't sorry. Not at all. In fact, as she gathered her things and tidied up the throw, folding it neatly and placing it back on the armrest, a strange sense of gratitude washed over her. Gratitude for his restraint. In a world that often felt rushed and overwhelming, Connor had offered her something rare: space. And respect. He had seen her, talked to her, enjoyed her company, without any apparent agenda beyond just… that. It was refreshing. Almost disarming.

Yet, a tiny whisper of curiosity danced at the edge of her mind. Why? Why hadn't he… Well, she didn't know what she expected, exactly. But there had been a definite current between them, a spark in the air, a quiet understanding that went beyond mere friendship. She'd felt it, hadn't she? She wasn't imagining it. Or was she? Maybe she was projecting, reading too much into an unpleasant evening and a kind gesture.

Shaking her head slightly, Maya banished the doubts. It didn't matter why. What mattered was that she had enjoyed herself immensely, and she liked Connor. A lot. And his restraint, whatever the reason, had only piqued her interest further. It made him different. Intriguing. Someone who valued connection and consent, perhaps even more than immediate gratification.

When she made to leave, Downstairs, the doorman, Mr. Henderson, a kindly older gentleman with a perpetually knowing smile, greeted her with a warm, "Morning, Miss Maya."

"Good morning, Mr. Henderson," she replied, returning his smile. "Could you do me a favour? Could you give this key to Mr. Sterling when he gets back? And… could you also pass on a message?"

Mr. Henderson's eyebrows rose slightly, a hint of playful curiosity in his eyes. "Of course, Miss Maya."

Maya took a breath, feeling a flutter of nervousness in her stomach. This was it. She was stepping outside her comfort zone now, taking a risk, being bold. And it felt… exhilarating.

"Could you tell him… tell Mr. Sterling that I left his key, thank you for a lovely evening, and… and that I would love to sit with him for Sunday dinner, if he'd be interested." She rushed the last part, feeling her cheeks flush. "Just… if he's free and interested, of course. No pressure." She echoed her earlier sentiment, a small smile playing on her lips.

Mr. Henderson's smile widened into a full grin. "Sunday dinner, you say? I'll be sure to deliver the message, Miss Maya. I have a feeling Mr. Sterling will be very interested indeed." He winked, and Maya laughed, feeling a lightness in her chest. She turned and walked out into the bright almost noon sun, the city sounds suddenly vibrant and full of promise.

Meanwhile, Olivia returned from her run, the cool evening breeze still clinging to her skin. She walked into her apartment, the familiar quiet settling around her like a comfortable blanket. He noticed the neatly folded throw on the sofa, a subtle reminder of having a guest, of Maya. She picked it up, inhaling the faint trace of her perfume that still lingered, a delicate floral scent that was both fresh and alluring.

She enjoyed her company immensely. More than immensely. She'd been captivated by her quick wit, her easy laughter, the thoughtful way she listened when she spoke. In fact, where was she?

Connor had gone about his day light on his feet, on returning to his loft, he thought of Maya. He'd wanted to reach out, to touch her hand, to pull her closer, to listen to her talk. He'd felt the pull, the undeniable attraction, a current humming beneath the surface of their conversation this morning.

But he hadn't. He'd held back. Partly because he was genuinely unsure of her feelings. He'd only met Maya a few weeks ago when his buddy invited him out, and while they'd exchanged numbers and texted a few times, this was their first real outing, their first proper date, if he dared to call it that. He didn't want to misread the signals, to come on too strong, to scare her away. He valued connection, genuine connection, and he knew that couldn't be rushed or forced.

But there was more to it than that. There was a part of him that was still… cautious. Wary. He'd been hurt before, badly. And the scars, though faded with time, still ached occasionally. He'd built walls around his heart, brick by brick, and letting someone in, truly in, felt both terrifying and exhilarating. Maya seemed… different. She seemed genuine, kind, and intelligent. But still, the old anxieties lingered, whispering doubts in the back of his mind.

He was just brewing a coffee when Mr. Henderson called on the intercom. "Mr. Sterling, Miss Maya dropped by to return your key. And she left a message for you."

Connor's heart skipped a beat. "A message?"

"Yes, sir. She said, 'Thank you for a lovely evening, and I would love to sit with you for Sunday dinner, if you'd be interested.'" Mr. Henderson's voice was carefully neutral, but Connir could hear the subtle undercurrent of amusement.

Connor's breath caught in his throat. Sunday dinner. She wanted to see him again. She was interested. Relief and a surge of exhilaration flooded through him, chasing away the lingering anxieties. He leaned against the kitchen counter, a slow smile spreading across his face.

"Thank you, Mr. Henderson," he managed to say, his voice slightly husky. "Please tell Miss Maya… tell her yes. Yes, I would absolutely love to have Sunday dinner with her."

Sunday arrived, bathed in warm, late afternoon sunlight. Maya's apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of roasting chicken and herbs. She'd spent the day meticulously preparing, wanting everything to be perfect, to show Connor that her invitation meant something to him. He'd gone to the farmer's market for fresh vegetables, baked a loaf of crusty bread, and even attempted a lemon tart for dessert, which, if he was honest, was a bit of a disaster but hopefully still edible.

He was nervous, pacing slightly as he waited for his cab to arrive, fiddling with the placement of the flowers in the bouquet for the tenth time. He wanted this to be right. He wanted to show her that her boldness, her willingness to take a chance, was appreciated, reciprocated.

The doorbell rang, and her heart jumped. He took a deep breath, smoothed his shirt, and waited for someone to open the door.

Maya stood there, radiant in a soft blue dress, a small smile playing on her lips. She held a bottle of wine in her hand as she unlocked the door to reveal her visitor.

"Hope I'm not too early," he said, his voice a little breathless. "And I didn't want to come empty-handed."

"You're perfect," Maya said, the words escaping before she could censor them. He blushed slightly, realizing how forward that sounded, but Maya's smile only widened.

"Perfectly on time," she corrected herself, stepping aside to let him in. "And the package is very thoughtful, thank you."

The nervousness faded as soon as they were together. The Sunday dinner unfolded with an ease and warmth that felt both familiar and new. They talked, they laughed, they shared stories and opinions, the conversation flowing effortlessly between them. Connor found himself opening up more than he had in a long time, sharing his vulnerabilities, his hopes, his dreams. And May listened, truly listened, her eyes full of understanding and empathy.

As they cleared the table after dinner, a comfortable silence settled between them. Connor turned to Maya, his gaze locking with hers. "Thank you for inviting me for dinner," he said, his voice soft. "It was… wonderful."

Maya's cheeks flushed slightly. "Thank you for saying yes. And for cooking desert. Everything was delicious, even… even the slightly… rustic lemon tart." She grinned, and Connor chuckled.

"Rustic is a kind word for it," he admitted, shaking his head. "But it was made with intention." He paused, taking a step closer to her. "I wanted to say… about last night. I know I didn't… I didn't make a move. And I wanted you to know it wasn't because I wasn't attracted to you. Because I am, Maya. Very much."

Maya's breath hitched slightly. "I… I wondered," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I also appreciated it. The… the respect. It meant a lot."

"I wanted to be sure," Connor continued, his voice earnest. "I wanted to be sure you were comfortable, that you want… this. Whatever 'this' is going to be." He reached out and gently took her hand, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. "And after last night, after today… I think maybe we could explore 'this' a little further. If you're willing."

Maya looked at him, her eyes shining with a mixture of hope and something deeper, something akin to… affection. "I think," she said, her voice soft but firm, "I would very much like to explore 'this' with you, Connor."

He smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that reached his eyes. He leaned in, slowly, deliberately, giving her time, giving her space, until his lips met hers. It was a gentle kiss, tentative at first, but then deepening, blossoming into something warm, promising, and full of potential. As they pulled apart, their foreheads touching, the last rays of the Sunday sun streamed through the window, bathing them in a golden light, illuminating the beginning of something new, something beautiful, born from restraint, respect, and a simple invitation to Sunday dinner.