Chapter Four — Closer
It all kicked off with a text on Saturday morning.
There's a market on Greville Street. Apparently, it's pretty good. — D
Zara read it while lounging in bed, her hair a wild mess, eyes barely open, and her brain functioning at about forty percent of its usual self. She stared at the message for a moment, trying to figure out if this was an invitation or just casual info being tossed around between two people who had been texting each other every night this week. It seemed they had reached that point where sharing tidbits about local markets felt completely normal.
But when had that shift happened?
She was pretty sure it had snuck up on her while she was distracted by other things.
She typed back: Is that you telling me or inviting me?
The three dots popped up almost instantly, indicating he had been awake for a bit.
Both. If you want. — D
She stared at the ceiling for exactly four seconds.
Give me forty minutes. — Z
She was already up before she even hit send.
She showered quicker than usual and put on clothes with more thought than she cared to admit — the green jumper, then the grey one, then back to the green because the grey made her look like she hadn't slept, which was almost true but didn't need to be broadcasted. She brewed some coffee and sipped it while standing at the kitchen window, gazing at the brick wall, reminding herself twice with absolute certainty that this was just a market.
She liked markets.
She was going because she liked markets.
The fact that Daniel Voss had suggested it was just a minor detail in her decision, and she definitely wasn't doing anything as silly as getting excited over a Saturday morning text from a guy she had known for three weeks.
But deep down, she absolutely was.
She showed up in thirty-eight minutes. He was already at the entrance, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, exuding that vibe of someone who had been waiting just long enough to feel settled, but not so long that she felt late. The morning was crisp and bright—October really putting on a show, the kind of day that made you grateful to be outside. He looked up as soon as he spotted her.
There was something in his expression that sparked a feeling. She was running out of ways to avoid naming that feeling.
"Thirty-eight minutes," he remarked.
"I said forty. I was just being cautious."
He gave her a partial smile, the kind she had been secretly collecting since that first Thursday morning. "Come on then."
The market was the kind of place Crestview had clearly been keeping from her—long rows of stalls stretching down both sides of the street, the aroma of roasting coffee, fresh bread, and something sweet wafting through the air before she could even pinpoint what it was. The Saturday morning crowd moved leisurely, as if no one had anywhere pressing to be. Dogs on leashes, kids passionately debating their favorite things, couples stopping at the same stalls without a word.
They strolled in together.
She quickly realized they had found a rhythm—a shared walking pace that seemed to come naturally, without any need for discussion. Not too fast, not slow; just the pace of two people who were content to be where they were, with no rush to leave.
She had never experienced this with anyone before—the effortless matching.
She tucked that thought away.
As they wandered through the first section of stalls—fresh produce, baked goods, and a cheese stall run by a man with very strong opinions about unpasteurized milk—Daniel listened with a patience she knew she wouldn't have managed.
They picked up the bowl.
She really didn't need it—her apartment was already filled with enough ceramics. After six weeks in Crestview, she hadn't even started decorating beyond the essentials. But this bowl was just right, with the perfect glaze, and the base had been shaped by someone's thumb on a specific day, which somehow made it worth the eight pounds.
Before she could reach for her bag, Daniel had already paid.
"You didn't have to—" she began.
"I know," he replied simply.
She glanced at him, but he was already focused on the next stall.
She tucked this away in her mind—the way he did things without making a fuss. He didn't seek acknowledgment or expect a return for his kindness, unlike some people who needed a show of generosity. He just acted. Quietly. And then moved on.
She realized she hadn't been around people like that before.
Now she understood how rare it was.
As they wandered through the market, he bought coffee beans from a vendor who had strong opinions about single origin, and Daniel engaged him in a genuine conversation that went on for quite a while. She picked up some bread from a baker who had been at it for thirty years, and whose sourdough had a unique quality she couldn't quite put her finger on but planned to explore when she got home.
About an hour into their market stroll, they reached the far end where the food stalls were clustered around wooden benches and stools. The aroma here was incredible—different dishes cooking nearby created a blend that was far better than any single one.
Daniel ordered salt beef sandwiches from a man who took his craft seriously.
She grabbed two coffees.
They found stools next to each other and settled in with their food, surrounded by the buzz of Saturday morning.
Then, the autumn sun broke through.
"Tell me something I wouldn't guess about you," she said, her eyes curious. He took a moment to really think it over, not just reaching for an easy answer. She could see the gears turning in his mind, the subtle change in his expression that showed he was genuinely considering it, rather than just performing for her.
"I can't sleep without a window open," he finally admitted. "Even in winter. I've tried, but it just doesn't work for me."
"Even in winter?" she echoed, surprised.
"Even in January. The cold doesn't bother me when I'm asleep." He paused for a moment. "But it seems to bother everyone I've told this to."
"It'll probably bother your joints when you're older," she replied, half-joking.
"Yeah, probably." He met her gaze. "Your turn."
She pondered what to share. There were parts of herself she usually kept close, the deeper textures that needed time and trust to reveal. She had learned that lesson the hard way—giving too much too soon to people who weren't ready to handle it, leaving her feeling exposed and regretting her openness.
She glanced at Daniel, contemplating how to share without overwhelming.
She thought about the canal and Owen, and how he had accepted what she offered and simply—held it.
"I'm terrified of escalators," she confessed.
He paused mid-bite, sandwich hovering in the air, looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read. "Escalators?"
"Not elevators. Not heights in general. Just escalators."
"Why escalators?" he asked, intrigued.
"I honestly don't know. I can't explain it. I stand at the top, and my brain just refuses to let me go." She took a sip of her coffee. "I take the stairs everywhere. My friends thought I was just being health-conscious. I let them think that."
He was still gazing at her, his expression a complete mystery. Then, it shifted into something she could actually decipher. Not amusement—something warmer, something that felt like discovering a side of someone you hadn't fully grasped before. It was like adding a missing piece to a puzzle, suddenly making the whole picture clearer.
"What," she asked.
"Nothing." He maintained that same look.
"Daniel."
"It's just—" he hesitated, and she noticed him genuinely searching for the right words instead of just the easiest ones. "You come across as someone who isn't intimidated by much. I believe that's real—I've been observing you for three weeks, and it doesn't feel like an act." He held her gaze. "And then you tell me you've been quietly organizing your whole life around escalators, and somehow that makes you—"
He trailed off.
"More what," she pressed, keeping her eyes locked on his across the wooden stool.
He looked at her in the warm October sunlight, with the market bustling around them and the salt beef sandwiches sitting between them, and said:
"Real. It makes you feel more real to me."
The word hit her right in the center of her chest and settled there.
Real.
Not interesting. Not appealing. Not the flashy words people often use. Real. A word that described something that existed in its true form, not just a version crafted for show.
She was the first to look away.
Back to the crowd. Nearby, a child was fervently negotiating with a parent over a balloon, pouring all their energy into what seemed like the most crucial conversation of the day.
She took a breath.
Let the feeling linger without overthinking it.
"We should grab more coffee," she suggested.
"Yes," he replied.
Neither of them moved for a long moment.
The October sun continued to shine down.
Something felt different at the market. She picked up on it during her leisurely stroll back through the stalls — the second time around, when the main goal of the market had been ticked off the list, and it was just about soaking in the atmosphere. The space between them had changed. Not in a big way, but enough to notice — that careful professional distance she had been keeping for three weeks, the six inches of intentional space, had somehow shrunk without either of them making a conscious choice to do so.
They were closer now.
Close enough that when she paused at a stall, he stood right next to her instead of behind her. Close enough that when she turned to speak, her voice didn't need to rise above a whisper. Close enough that their hands brushed while reaching for the same item on the stall table, and neither of them pulled away right away.
They didn't bring it up.
They continued to shop. She picked up a print from an artist who specialized in lino cuts — simple black lines depicting a bird in a tree, something serene and understated that she thought would look great on the bare wall in her apartment she had been eyeing for six weeks. He chose coffee beans from a different stall this time, carefully comparing them to his earlier purchase, his serious demeanor suggesting that the first choice hadn't quite hit the mark after all.
She observed him at the coffee stall.
The way he engaged with the stallholder. The thoughtful questions he asked that showed he was really listening. The intense focus he gave to things he deemed worthy of his attention.
She reflected on three weeks of being the recipient of that kind of focus.
She pondered what it felt like to be the person someone chose to invest their attention in.
She wasn't sure she had fully wrapped her head around it yet.
He walked her home. Not because she asked him to, or because she really needed it—after all, it was broad daylight, and she had been navigating Crestview on her own for six weeks. The path from the market to her building was as clear as day. But he didn't take the turn when they reached the fork in the road. He just kept walking alongside her, and she didn't say anything about it because, honestly, she didn't want to. Lately, she found that she didn't want to say much at all.
There were so many things she held back, trying to keep the space she had been carefully managing. For three weeks now, she had been present but not fully there, engaged yet keeping the distance of someone who had been through this before and knew the risks of getting too close too quickly.
She was growing weary of this balancing act. She wasn't quite sure what to do with that feeling yet.
When they reached her building, they paused outside on the pavement. This was the moment that always left her feeling uncertain—the end of time spent with someone, that suspended second between what had been and what was about to happen, the small, heavy pause where the air between them could either close up or remain open.
She turned to face him.
He was already looking at her. That was the thing about him—he was always looking, not just with the casual awareness of someone sharing the same space, but with a focused gaze, specifically and deliberately on her.
"Thanks for the market tip," she said.
"Thanks for the ceramic lesson," he replied, pausing for a moment. "And for the escalator info."
Despite everything, she felt a smile tugging at her lips. "Just don't use it against me."
"I would never," he said, his almost-smile hinting at something more.
There was a pause, one that felt alive. It wasn't just silence; it was filled with everything that had led up to this moment. Three weeks of mornings spent walking by the canal, Owen, her mother, and a surprising ease that had settled in. Four times before she finally arrived, all the weight of paying close attention to someone until that attention became something more than just a feeling—it had its own energy.
He stepped a little closer.
Not in a grand way. No big gestures. Just closing that final gap. Enough for her to feel his warmth against the chilly October air. Enough that the next move felt like a choice rather than something that just happened.
His hand found her jaw.
Gently, his fingers brushed the side of her face, tilting it up just a bit. His thumb traced her cheekbone—slowly, deliberately—and she felt it resonate within her, like the kind of touch that comes from someone who has been truly attentive for long enough that the connection builds its own rhythm.
He looked at her as if asking a question.
She answered simply by staying right where she was.
Then he kissed her.
Not like the rain-soaked street. Not like the canal path. Each kiss was unique, she was starting to realize, because they carried different emotions. This one held the market, the bowl, the morning, the realness, and all the three weeks of everything they had been creating together. It felt warmer than the others. More grounded. More certain.
His hand was warm against her face.
She held onto the front of his jacket.
The street around them was quiet.
In that moment, she wasn't thinking about anything else but this.
That afternoon, she hung the lino cut print on the empty wall. The bird perched in the tree, the crisp black lines—it just felt right, as if it had always belonged there, like the wall had been waiting for this moment instead of just being a neglected space she hadn't gotten around to fixing up. She took a step back to admire it.
Then her gaze wandered around the apartment—the print, Gerald, the sturdy wooden desk, and the bowl from the market sitting on the kitchen table, catching the warm afternoon light. The brick wall visible through the kitchen window, and the radiator quietly doing its thing in the background.
It struck her that this place felt like a home. Not a temporary stopover, not the kind of space where someone was still deciding whether to stay. It felt like a place that had been lived in by someone who truly intended to make it their own.
She hadn't even realized the change was happening. But it had.
She brewed some tea, settled at her desk, and opened up the bookshop brief, diving into her work with a focused energy that came from a productive morning, easing a slight tension that had been lingering in her chest.
Thoughts of him saying "real" crossed her mind. She remembered the way he had looked at her in the soft October light. And next Saturday loomed in her thoughts.
She was in the zone.
At six o'clock, her phone buzzed.
"The coffee from the second stall is better. I should have started there." — D
She read the message and couldn't help but smile.
"The first stall guy would be heartbroken to hear this." — Z
"He'll never know. I'm protecting his feelings." — D
"How thoughtful of you." — Z
"I have my moments." — D
She set her phone aside and returned to the bookshop brief, still smiling as she wrapped up her work for the evening.
Sunday rolled in, draped in a blanket of grey and silence. She settled into her morning routine at her desk, making good progress on the bookshop brief, watching the visual identity take shape. The bookshop aimed to embody its true self rather than just come off as a brand, which was the best kind of brief. It meant she was uncovering something genuine instead of just piecing together a facade. She was in the midst of that discovery.
For most of the morning, her phone sat still, a quiet companion. She noticed this in a way that felt almost natural, like how she had begun to sense his presence and absence—not with obsession or anxiety, but simply as part of the day's rhythm. He wasn't texting. He was likely busy with his own thoughts or whatever Sunday mornings looked like for him in his Crestview flat, a place she hadn't yet seen.
She pondered this, reflecting on all the unknowns. His flat, his life outside of Groundwork, the version of him that existed in his professional world compared to the one she saw over coffee. What was he like when life got tough—not the kind of tough that came from a stroll by the canal, but the real, everyday struggles of living?
She was familiar with the polished version of him, the one he presented at Groundwork. But she craved to know the whole story. It felt important to her that she wanted to see beyond the curated snippets.
At noon, her phone buzzed to life.
"Are you working?" — D
"Bookshop brief. It's going well." — Z
"Don't let me interrupt." — D
"You're not interrupting." — Z
"Good. I was thinking about something." — D
She paused, waiting.
"Can I tell you about Owen? Properly. Not the canal version." — D
She set her phone down, then picked it back up.
"Yes," she typed. "Tell me."
He chose to call instead of text.
She hadn't seen this coming—she was ready for a message, the kind that was carefully thought out and written down. But a call? That signified something else entirely. It meant he wanted to connect in real time, to share his thoughts without the chance to edit or rethink them before she heard.
She picked up on the second ring.
"Hi," he greeted her.
"Hi."
There was a moment of silence.
"I've been reflecting on what I said by the canal," he continued. "About how Owen found humor in things that others overlooked. He had a unique sense of humor." Another pause. "I didn't share everything else."
"You don't have to," she replied.
"I know, but I want to." The silence stretched longer this time, the kind he took when he was trying to articulate something tough. "Owen faced struggles. His entire life, in various ways, he battled. With his mental health. With our father, who just didn't—wasn't able to grasp that kind of struggle." His tone remained steady, his composure intact. "I spent so many years trying to be the link between them, trying to explain Owen to our father and vice versa."
She listened intently.
"I wasn't very good at it," he admitted. "And then Owen passed away, and it hit me that I had wasted years on that bridge when I should have just been there for Owen."
The apartment felt eerily quiet.
"Daniel," she said softly.
"I'm not sharing this for sympathy," he interjected quickly. "I'm sharing it because you opened up about your mother, and I want you to have the complete picture. Not just the canal version."
She held the phone tightly.
"I understand," she said. "Thank you for sharing it with me."
A long pause followed.
"Thank you for being open to it," he replied.
They chatted for two hours. She was all curled up in the corner of her couch, with Gerald perched on the windowsill behind her, the grey Sunday gloom outside, and Daniel's voice filling her ear as he talked about Owen, their father, the years that followed, and that particularly tough year after the loss. He didn't spill everything. She got that—understood there were layers to peel back, and he was just sharing the surface ones for now. The deeper stuff would take more time and trust; it wasn't about holding back, just the natural pace of making things real. She opened up about her last two years. Not the usual story she told—no mention of a relationship that had run its course or her need for a change. This was the raw truth. The ex, the way she felt herself shrinking, and how someone could make you feel smaller without ever being outright cruel. It all happened so gradually, and you only really see it when you look back from the outside. He listened, not interrupting. He didn't offer the easy reactions—no outrage on her behalf, no sympathy, no attempts to gloss over it. He just absorbed it, held it like she said her mother had described. Without adding anything. When she wrapped up, he said, "You saw it clearly enough to leave." "Eventually," she replied. "Eventually is enough," he said. "Most people never get there." She glanced at Gerald on the windowsill. She thought about arriving in Crestview with just two suitcases, a broken laptop, and a promise to keep things simple. She remembered a man who had caught her eye across a coffee shop and hadn't looked away. She thought about the canal, the market, and what felt real. "Thank you," she said softly. "For what?" he asked. "For calling," she replied. "Instead of texting."
That night, she found herself lost in a dream. When morning came, the details slipped away like sand through her fingers—dreams fading into mere impressions, leaving behind a warm, emotional echo instead of a clear story.
All she could hold onto was that warmth.
Just that. A comforting presence, as if something that was meant to be there truly was.
She woke up at seven, lying still for a moment in the soft, grey light of Monday morning, savoring that feeling before it vanished completely.
Then, she got up.
She brewed coffee by the kitchen window.
The brick wall stood there, doing its usual thing.
Gerald had sprouted a new leaf—she counted carefully, the third one, a delicate pale green unfurling at the top of the plant that hadn't been there the day before. She felt a special kind of satisfaction, like a reward for paying attention.
She texted Daniel.
"Gerald has a new leaf. Third one. — Z"
She made her coffee.
Sipped it.
Her phone buzzed.
"Who is Gerald? — D"
She chuckled, a helpless laugh.
"My windowsill plant. You haven't met him yet. He's very important. — Z"
"I look forward to meeting him. — D"
"He's particular about first impressions. — Z"
"I'll prepare accordingly. — D"
She set her phone down.
Grabbed her bag.
Headed to Groundwork.
He was there at seven twenty. She arrived at seven twenty-eight. Bette had both coffees ready before either of them reached the counter.
They settled into the corner table.
He opened his legal pad.
She opened her laptop.
The Monday morning wrapped around them, settling in like an old friend finding its rhythm.
She thought about that warmth and the feeling of something that was meant to be there actually being there.
She believed it would continue to feel that way.
And she was right.