Chapter 15: Party Games
Clara stepped into Emma's apartment and immediately felt the thrumming life of the party wrap around her like a familiar quilt. The living room was a kaleidoscope of laughter, colorful streamers, and twinkling fairy lights strung from the ceiling. Music pulsed softly in the background, a happy undertone to the murmur of voices. She spotted Emma behind the snack table, chatting and ladling punch into paper cups. Clara took a sip of the warm cinnamon-spiced cider Emma offered, letting the sweet warmth chase away the last of her nerves.
Mark was already here. She noticed him leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, head tilted as if studying a fine painting. In reality, he was watching the party — and watching her. Clara felt a strange flutter; Mark looked relaxed yet always attentive, the picture of calm contentment in a corner of chaos. She tried to catch his eye and give a shy smile, but just as their gazes met, something blocked her view.
Greg had arrived. He burst through the front door in a blur of color, jangling keys and a grin so broad it was almost comical. He was wearing a bomber jacket two sizes too big and a scarf that his grandma might have knitted—she would have liked it, if present. Greg saw Clara the instant he stepped in and charged toward her like a puppy on espresso. "Hello!" he yelled, already lunging with open arms.
Clara braced herself as Greg practically tackled her in a bone-crushing side-hug. He planted one big kiss on her cheek—one for each minute she'd been away—and tried to lift her off the floor in excitement. The world briefly tilted at the encounter. Clara, winded, could do little but laugh weakly and wrap an arm around Greg's overbearing shoulders. Her internal monologue shrieked that this was way too intense for eight-thirty on a Friday night. She gave Greg a weak smile and tried to settle back, steadying herself.
Mark watched the spectacle quietly, raising an eyebrow as Greg gloriously hogged Clara's attention. Later, Clara would realize Mark's half-smile in that moment felt like an anchor to her. Comparing the two was getting cliché, but she couldn't help herself: Greg was a whirling dervish, all intensity and noise, whereas Mark was still water. Here comes the clown, Clara thought in friendly mockery as Greg caught his breath. She shuddered a little at Greg's excitement—she liked him, but not that much.
Greg, still grinning like a loon, didn't notice Clara's slight flinch. Instead, he turned toward Emma and started loudly complaining that she'd forgotten to put pineapple in the punch. Everyone else in the room smiled indulgently. Mark merely glanced back at the snacks table, seemingly uninterested in fruit politics.
Clara barely had time to unclench her jaw when Emma suddenly clapped her hands. "Charades, everyone! Let's play charades!" she announced, balancing a red party hat that looked more like a tulip than a hat. As people began to gather in a semi-circle, Clara groaned inwardly. Of course, she thought. Charades. My real hidden talent.
Mark was invited over by Emma with a polite wave. He followed with a small, obliging smile and took a seat at the edge of the circle, far enough away not to fuss with any accidental bumping. Greg, eyes shining, bounced in place like a hyperactive kid. "Ooh, I love charades!" he announced to no one in particular, patting Clara on the shoulder as he sat next to her. "We all ready for charades?" he asked, turning his entire torso toward her as if to hold her hand and ask permission. Clara managed to swivel awkwardly on her chair just to avoid eye contact.
The deck of charade prompts was in Emma's lap. She shuffled and fanned out the cards face down for the first volunteer to pick one. Clara's trepidation shifted to curiosity as everyone watched Emma raise her eyebrows at her to start. With a comically exaggerated sigh, Greg practically pushed Clara to choose first. She shot him a bemused glance, as if daring him to play himself. He only raised a dramatic theatrical eyebrow back.
Clara closed her eyes briefly and pointed at the cards. Emma handed her the top card. Clara peeked at it: Puppy. A stray strand of her hair brushed her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear and hopped onto her feet, clearing her throat. Immediately, Clara felt a tingling in her senses. The table of party snacks to her left shimmered for a split second in her vision; the sunflower-scented candle at Emma's elbow flickered wildly, as if cheering her on. Clara blushed and shook her head — of course it was just nerves, nothing mystical.
Rounding her shoulders, Clara set off. She acted out Puppy swiftly and comically: paws, tail, going for treat, barking (very quietly — let's not start a noise problem indoors). Mark watched with amused eyes, and even Greg leaned forward, jaw open, though Clara couldn't tell if he understood the clue yet. Finally, Greg shouted "Puppy!" as if he were the audience's designated guesser. Applause broke out; Emma clapped and gave Clara a playful pinch on the arm. Clara sat back down with a grin, heart pulsing with adrenaline. She had aced it.
What was more puzzling than Clara winning the first round was what happened next. She wasn't exactly cheating at charades, but each time someone else performed and passed the card, she could somehow guess it in a snap. Greg was up next, jumping around as he tried to mime Airplane, flapping arms and making whooshing sounds. Clara stared at him and grinned; at some point, she realized the card he picked had been definitely Airplane. No one else in the room seemed to notice anything odd, but Clara caught Mark's eye, and he winked knowingly at her as she impressed everyone with her uncanny guesses.
Whenever Clara's turn came around again, the same little magic occurred. She'd be handed a word like Ice Skating, Catwalk, or Pizza Delivery, and after a moment's performance she could anticipate the answer. The string lights softly twinkled each time she got it right, as if the fairy lights themselves were nodding in approval. She wondered if it was just nerves—or some weird vibe in the apartment—rooting for her. Either way, her charades record became something of a running joke.
Through it all, Clara's attention remained partly on Greg and partly on Mark. Greg laughed loudly after each of her correct guesses and did a little celebratory fist pump, whereas Mark simply smiled modestly from his seat. They had the same gray-blue eyes, but everything about Mark's gaze felt quieter and more assured whenever he caught hers after a round. It reminded Clara that he could see people clearly, even when she felt like she was fumbling in the dark.
After several rounds, the game paused and everyone took a breath. Greg flung an arm around Clara's shoulder in triumph, nearly skewering her by the ribs. He ruffled her hair with a "Nice one, Clara!" so enthusiastically that bits of her hairpin flew off in different directions. Clara chuckled, disentangling herself with an apology. "You might want to slow down before you throw out my hair accessories," she teased lightly.
Mark, from across the circle, cracked a faint smile. Not quite a grin, but the hint of one. Clara felt her cheeks warm as she realized Mark had been watching. Did he think that was funny? She wasn't sure, but the corners of his mouth lifting just a fraction made the entire living room feel a degree warmer.
Greg jumped up with unbelievable energy. He clapped his hands loudly and announced to everyone, "Next game — truth or dare!" Emma high-fived him enthusiastically, nearly making Clara jump. Before she could protest, chairs were being scooted aside and a spinning wine bottle was set in the center of the semi-circle. Clara tried not to feel anxious, but the momentum of the party was charging like electricity, and she didn't want to get shocked.
The circle of friends had gathered around the bottle on the floor — a makeshift truth-or-dare starter, apparently. A cold breeze of excitement blew through Clara as Gregory laughed and flicked the bottle with his fingertips; it eventually settled pointing straight at Clara. A round of "Oooh, Clara!" echoed through the group. Emma, eyeing Clara, asked playfully, "Truth or dare, Clara?"
Clara tried to answer lightly. "Um... truth," she said, hoping to talk her way out of anything too embarrassing. That, of course, was an invitation for more questions. The first few turns took a more mundane tone: Mark admitted to dancing salsa in the shower, a secret Greg found hilarious, and Greg admitted to once having a serious crush on a cartoon character named Bubbles from The Powerpuff Girls. Everyone laughed at Greg's enthusiastic confession — Clara covered her smile with her free hand, shaking her head at her friend's absurd love story.
Then the bottle spun to Clara again. This time, her heart really started thumping. She closed her eyes for a brief second and accepted "Truth," bracing herself for something difficult. Emma batted her eyelashes, a mischievous grin on her face. "Okay, Clara... who do you like?" she prompted, circling her finger in the air. A hush fell over the circle. The question carved a space through the warm buzz of the room. Clara froze, every ounce of color draining from her face.
In her mind, everything slowed. The background music seemed to fade and the hum of conversation came through like whispers from far away. It was as if the room itself was holding its breath. Clara blinked rapidly, trying to think of anything to say — but her mind was already replaying every memory of Mark. The dim fairy lights above her head pulled themselves together into a spotlight, illuminating only her and the space next to her where Mark sat.
Mark's eyes were steady on her face, warm and encouraging. She felt the weight of them like sunlight warming her skin. Around her, the living room blurred. The sofa's floral pattern melted into a watercolor behind her, the wooden floorboards turned into rolling dunes of carpet beneath her feet. In Clara's vision, Mark's face floated in focus before her, surrounded by snippets of the past: their easy walk home from class together last spring, laughter echoing under the blossoming cherry tree; Mark patiently waiting as she took extra time to find the perfect words; each chance encounter that had made her heart catch. One after another, like snapshots or old home videos, every memory of him played on a loop in her mind.
Clara inhaled sharply as if those images had been projected in living room-size behind her eyes. The air tasted of cinnamon punch and late summer night jasmine. Somewhere, a ceiling fan swept the air, rustling the papers on the table like applause. She knew Mark was waiting for her answer, and her heart beat thunderously against her ribs.
Finally, words slipped out of her mouth before she could stop them. "It's Mark," she whispered. The first instinct was guilt — that she had hurt Greg's feelings in the process — and then immediate panic. Did I just shout my secret across the room? She stared at her own feet as if the fibers in the rug might swallow her up. The room was silent.
Greg's face fell. "What?" he exclaimed so loudly that the silence cracked, and some of the tension popped. Everyone turned toward her in surprise. Mark's jaw worked slightly; for a moment, it almost looked like he was straining not to grin. The rest of the circle waited for the punchline, apparently expecting she was joking.
Emma clapped both hands over her mouth, pretending to be scandalized. "No way! Have we not seen this coming? Mark!" she teased, glancing between him and Clara. Suddenly the quiet was filled with relieved laughter and exclamations — laughter from everyone but Clara.
Greg stood up like a man barricading his heart. "I thought you liked me, weirdo!" he finally blurted out. His indignation made even the potted ficus next to them quiver a little (or at least it seemed to). Greg half-laughed, half-pretended to be insulted, crossing his arms dramatically. "Alright, so it's Mark. Got it." The gentle hush from before turned into good-natured commotion. Some teased Clara for taking so long to admit it, others gave Mark triumphant nods. Clara felt herself going red all over again. Her heart might have jumped out of her mouth if it weren't pressing against her ribs anyway. Mark, looking only mildly amused by Greg's dramatics, stood and came over to where Clara sat. He knelt down beside her on the couch and met her eyes.
"You... you like me?" Mark whispered in a tone that only she could hear. The closeness of his face sent a little shock through her. Clara cleared her throat, wishing her voice would steady. She nodded, words tangling in her throat.
There was something in Mark's gaze that made her blush just a little brighter. His quiet surprise dissolved into a smile — just the briefest upturn of his lips that seemed to transfer warmth into Clara's chest. In a moment that felt utterly private to Clara, Mark squeezed her hand in reassurance.
Magical realism took one more subtle form. Through her daze of embarrassment, Clara noticed how Mark's eyes seemed to gather starlight. The overhead string lights cast a gentle golden glimmer on their faces, as if painting a tiny halo around the pair. It was over in an instant: Greg rolling his eyes and playfully shooting Mark a look like "I told you so," Emma nudging her boyfriend who winked at Clara, everyone clapping and moving on to the next volunteer.
Clara leaned back into the cushions of the couch, heart still racing. That question, and her answer, had hung in the air between them like a spell. Around her, the party continued; Greg was rambling to Emma's cousin about what he would do for the next challenge, oblivious to anything but his next joke. But Clara's world had rearranged itself. Mark gently brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, and she let him. He asked quietly, "Are you okay?"
She managed a small, shaky laugh. "I'm fine. A little mortified," she mumbled. Her cheeks were undeniably warm now — but in a good way, she realized as Mark's thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand.
The commotion around them gently pulled Clara back to the present: someone passed by with a tray of brownies, and a familiar funk of damp jeans (courtesy of Greg spilling beer on his pants again) drifted in. Emma, ever the good host, flitted to them. "You two okay out here? We'll keep an eye on trouble," she teased, nodding at Greg's ongoing mock revenge saga. "There's coffee on the balcony if you want a break from the madness."
Clara stood, brushing off imaginary crumbs from her jeans. Her elbow clicked briefly against Mark's arm as she rose, and he gave her a crooked grin in return. "I'll grab it," he offered softly, already heading for the small outdoor door. The cool air rushed through the curtain as Mark opened it for her, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs.
The night air hit Clara's face; the city lights twinkled beyond the open balcony, and the fairy lights hung along the railing glowed softly. The world outside was quieter than the chaos inside — yet it was still a gentle hum of distant traffic and faraway voices. She inhaled the bittersweet scent of the coffee Mark handed her, appreciating the warmth of the mug between her palms. Emma's courtyard garden below smelled of night jasmine and fresh earth. Clara let the serenity of the balcony soothe her.
Mark lingered beside her, and they fell into an easy silence. It felt cocooned, just him and Clara against a backdrop of dark sky and golden light. They sipped coffee quietly for a moment. Clara let her senses wander: the taste of bitter cocoa mingled with the scent of blooming honeysuckle from Emma's small planter, the distant sound of sirens far below, and how warm the mug felt against her chest. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft.
"I'm really glad you're here, Mark," Clara said, fumbling with her spoon in the mug. The spoon clinked against the glass as she stirred absentmindedly. "And I mean — I'm glad you came tonight, and everything that happened."
Mark leaned against the railing behind her, his presence a steady comfort. He traced a swirly pattern in the condensation on his mug with his fingertip, then met her eyes. "Me too," he said quietly. "I was lucky I got invited."
Clara forced a small laugh. "Lucky? More like everyone got stuck with me and Greg." She glanced back inside. Through the open door, she could see Greg holding a tangled kegerator hose, being heroic and only mildly drowning in it, of course. Greg was still a walking cartoon. Clara shook her head and grinned. "Greg, the hero of cleanliness," she muttered under her breath.
Mark smiled at her joke, that familiar kind smile that made the fine line between his lips curl upward in a way that always made Clara's heart twist with something new. She took a sip of her drink. "Sorry again for kind of... blurting it out inside," she said, words trailing into the night breeze. The steam from her coffee curled around her face like a sigh.
Mark tilted his head. "Why would you be sorry?" he asked gently. "You didn't do anything wrong."
Clara shrugged and looked out over the city lights. How could she explain why she felt embarrassed? It was as if telling him in front of everyone had been opening something she wasn't ready to open. "I just... did not see that question coming. I wasn't ready for it in front of everyone."
Mark reached out and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay. I was kind of hoping you'd say it someday." He took a steadying breath and let it out slowly. "I've liked you for a while, Clara. I think I always will."
Those simple words made Clara's stomach somersault in a good way. She felt the gravel at her feet shift under her weight as she took a small step closer to him, despite herself. At that moment, a cool breeze swept over the balcony, and Clara felt a chill. She rubbed her arms to stay warm. Mark noticed immediately. Without a word, he shrugged out of his lightweight jacket and slipped it around her shoulders, gently bundling her up in its warmth. The jacket smelled faintly of cinnamon and smoke from earlier in the night, an odd but comforting scent.
Clara leaned into his warm side, enveloped by the coat and his steady warmth. She could feel his heartbeat—slow and calm—through the fabric, contrasting sharply with her own, which was pulsing. They stood shoulder to shoulder, leaning on the railing. The city lights below and the distant stars above felt like silent spectators to this quiet confession. Clara's mind was a flurry of things she wanted to say, but mostly she just let herself be next to him for a while.
Finally, she gathered courage to speak again. "I've liked you too, Mark," she whispered, almost to herself. "I did. For so long, but I didn't think you knew."
Mark gave her hand another squeeze. "I kind of hoped."
Clara exhaled loudly, feeling a wave of relief she didn't know she'd been holding. "Well, I guess we really shouldn't keep secrets from each other then," she murmured with a small laugh.
Mark's eyes glinted in the fairy light. "No secrets," he agreed.
They both glanced at the balcony door when music from inside shifted to a slower song. Greg's muffled voice could be heard somewhere over an attempt at singing. Clara smiled. This whole evening suddenly felt less chaotic and more like a movie — her movie.
Clara tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Inside, Emma was flicking away a bit of spilled punch from the carpet with a dishtowel, one eyebrow raised. The scene on the balcony felt a world apart. She knew they should probably head back before someone called a search party for them, but for now this was perfect.
Returning inside, the party was winding down. A few stragglers rummaged through leftovers and tidied up. Clara noticed Greg darting around the living room with exaggerated purpose. "Don't worry, we got it covered," he announced loudly, shirt sleeves rolled up, as he spotted a puddle of red wine snaking across the coffee table and onto the rug.
He moved toward the spill in grand, heroic strides, as if enacting some rescue scene on TV. Greg puffed out his chest, sweeping a hand through the air. "Fear not, fair ladies and gentlemen, I shall vanquish this villainous vintage," he declared dramatically, grabbing a throw pillow to mop it up. All eyes turned; some stifled chuckles filled the air.
Clara raised an eyebrow at his theatrics, internally rolling her eyes. She hesitated — did she want to help? Something about Greg's antics made her want to laugh. In the end, she knelt down beside Mark who had quietly caught up behind her. Mark offered Clara a damp cloth from a nearly emptied sink basin. "We should do it quietly," he murmured.
Clara bit her lip to hold back a grin. "Quietly? Who's this guy?" she thought, glancing at Greg who was now wrestling with the pillow as if it were alive and refusing to absorb the spill. Mark's calm composure was the exact opposite of Greg's struggle.
Wine spilled across the table looked like spilled rubies on the white cloth. The lamplight glinted off each drop, turning the mess into something accidentally beautiful. They knelt side by side on the rug. Clara caught her reflection in the hallway mirror. In the glass she saw Mark kneeling at her side, both of them focused and a little ridiculous. He caught her eye in the reflection and raised an eyebrow with a half-smile, as if challenging her to match his quiet seriousness.
Clara felt warmth in her chest at the sight of him — so intent, yet so calm. "This is quite the scene," she thought, gently blotting at the wine. "Meanwhile, over at circus corner…" She glanced at Greg again, who was growling at the stain on the wooden floor.
Greg had moved on from headline theatrics to silent sulking: soaked towel in hand, he was muttering to himself about cleaning under his breath. Emma playfully tapped a cocktail napkin on the floor next to him. "Here, Greg," she said, chuckling. "Try this anti-spill device." She wiggled the napkin under his nose.
Clara and Mark exchanged an amused look in the mirror, both stifling smiles. Mark turned back to the spill on the rug and worked steadily. He was methodical: damp cloth, gentle blot, swapping cloths, repeating until the rich red ring was almost gone. Clara knelt quietly, supporting him by picking up crumpled napkins and tossing them in the trash bin.
At one point, Clara stood to wring out the towel. The mirror on the wall followed her move. She caught herself in reflection, eyes wide at Mark's small act. Behind her, Mark was watching her. In the mirror, their faces hovered side-by-side, both concentrating on the task — and then both smiling at each other. Clara's cheeks warmed under Mark's gaze.
Clara looked back up at Mark directly, and their eyes met for a moment. Mark's lips curved just slightly, and his eyes crinkled in the corners. "Thanks," she whispered as they finished the last of the stain on the rug.
He gave her a small, confident smile. "Always," he replied in an equally low voice.
Clara realized that they had been cleaning very quietly, in stark contrast to Greg's earlier performance. The mirror reflected back their flushed faces and the still-damp floor, bathed in the warm glow of the lamp. When the last rag was binned, they both stood up. Mark held out a steady hand as Clara brushed crumbs from her skirt. They dusted each other's shoulders lightly, standing side by side like a mirrored pair.
Behind them, Greg waved a paper towel in mock salute. "Done saving the world?" he called with a grin.
Clara smiled in reply. "All in a day's work," she answered with playful irony in her voice.
As Greg burst out laughing, Clara felt a surprising surge of affection for Mark — for just being there quietly and calmly like a safe harbor in all the chaos.
Eventually, the party's tails wound down. Emma ushered the remaining crowd into the kitchen to tackle the big cleanup. The soft jazz on the stereo was replaced by the clinking of utensils and the gentle hiss of running water from the sink. Clara found herself at the sink scrubbing a pan smeared with last night's pasta sauce, bubbles overflowing the basin.
Mark was beside her, rinsing plates and placing them in the drainer. The warm light from above turned their casual kitchen uniforms — tea-stained T-shirts and aprons — into something pleasantly homey. Clara caught him humming something unfamiliar under his breath; it sounded like the slow part of a love song, but she wasn't quite sure. He was barefoot on the cold tile floor, careful not to step on any puddles. Clara admired how even here, he did things with an easy grace.
They fell into a comfortable silence of shared chores. Clara's hands moved automatically, but she couldn't focus fully on the dish in front of her — or the way Mark's shirt bunched slightly at the back when he stretched to reach a dish. Every detail made her heart stir, but she didn't think he noticed.
At one point, Clara leaned in to rinse under the faucet and caught Mark's reflection in the stainless steel sink. For a split second, their eyes locked in the reflection; a jolt passed between them. The distance closed. Clara's heartbeat clicked loudly in her ears as she straightened up, dripping a bit of suds onto the floor. She glimpsed Mark's lips parted in a small smile.
Mark stepped forward a hair, shrinking the inches between them. They both paused, eyes half-closed. Clara's mind went blank except for one urgent thought: Now?
The dishes seemed to fade away. The kitchen's normal sounds didn't quite reach them. In that moment, the pale glow of the overhead bulb felt intimate, casting long shadows behind them on the floor. Mark's eyes softened and Clara felt a warm flush crawl up her throat. She could barely remember how to breathe.
Slowly, Mark raised a hand to tuck a stray strand of Clara's hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there at her cheek. Clara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Their faces inched toward each other. Clara's eyelashes fluttered; she could feel Mark's breath on her lips, steady and calm, in stark contrast to her pounding pulse.
Just as their lips were about to touch, the kitchen door swung open. Emma bustled in, holding a dish towel and two mugs. "I just heard rumors that there's an award for best dishwasher in a romantic comedy," she teased loudly. "Are my lovebirds auditioning for it right now?" She didn't even pretend to be shocked, just raised her eyebrows in playful inquiry.
Clara and Mark jumped apart, blinking rapidly. Clara blinked the saucy hearts right out of her eyes and wiped a fleck of soap off her lip. Emma grinned knowingly and passed them each a mug of water. "Drink up," she said. "Award or no, I vote you both deserve a trophy."
Mark grinned, a faint blush on his cheeks. Clara took a hurried sip of her water and felt it burn pleasantly down her throat. The embarrassment melted into something warm and gentle inside her chest.
Greg, coming up behind Emma to take a tea towel, gave an exaggerated cough and said, "Well! I'll take the bulletin!" His eyes danced between Clara and Mark. "You two sure need the oxygen," he teased with a wink.
Clara swatted him lightly with the towel. "Shut up, Greg," she said, though the warmth in her voice was unmistakable.
Emma shook her head, rolling her eyes affectionately. "Leave them alone, Greg. They're busy 'reorganizing' the silverware under the table," she quipped.
Before Clara could argue, Mark took the water mug and placed it on the counter beside the sink. Their fingers brushed, lingering for a moment. Clara's fingertips tingled. She said softly, "Thanks for... you know."
For a moment, no one said a word. Everyone else in the kitchen seemed to briefly vanish from Clara's mind. But the lively clang of dishes and Greg's still-snickering presence anchored them back to reality.
Mark smiled at her and squeezed her hand gently. It was an almost imperceptible gesture, but Clara felt the comfort in it. Her face burned with happiness. This warm moment, electric and quiet under the harsh kitchen light, confirmed more than anything what she already knew.
Emma cleared her throat and took a sip from her own mug as if to give them privacy. Then, still in a whisper, she added, "You two owe me a hundred bucks if I don't make a mixtape out of these confessions of affection."
Clara giggled softly, feeling like a teenager flushed all over. Emma's teasing made it all feel normal and right. Mark chuckled too and leaned in close to whisper something that made Clara's cheeks lighten even more (though no one but her could hear it).
By the time they finished cleaning and washed their hands, the kitchen was sparkling clean except for a sweet afterglow. Clara realized just how late it was: the clock ticked past midnight.
Mark slipped on his shoes at the door, glancing back at her. Clara swallowed, smiling to herself. Tonight had ended quietly, suddenly, perfectly — and Clara knew it was just the beginning of something wonderful.
Chapter 16: Heartbeats in Silence
The morning light slanted through Clara's curtains in lazy golden shafts. Her bedroom felt calm, but inside her head was a carnival of butterflies with a caffeine addiction. She stood before the mirror in her pajamas, clutching a mug of lukewarm coffee as if it were a life raft. Breathe, she instructed herself, her eyes darting to the reflection that looked just as eager and terrified as she felt. The mirror, for its part, winked back at her. Clara flinched, nearly spilling coffee on the floor. A brief, sure-of-it grin seemed to flicker across the mirror-image's face—as though the glass had become an old friend indulging her jitters with quiet confidence.
She cracked a small smile. Of all mornings to encounter a sentient mirror, Clara thought, this was it. Still holding onto the coffee, she reached out and ruffled her hair anyway, as if to say, Let's get a move on, eh? Her reflection returned the gesture. The unspoken conversation was absurd and yet somehow reassuring. In an odd way, waking up this morning felt like being launched into a new chapter of a fairy tale—one not written by the Brothers Grimm, but by some gentle satirist who knew her too well.
Clara sipped her cold coffee and imagined the ghosts of past dates and near-misses swirling with the caffeine in her belly. Today was different. Today was coffee with Mark—no ambiguous hugs in dim bars, no rushed "hello by the bus stop," and especially, no near-kiss-tangled nerves. Today was quiet morning. And just possibly, stillness meant sincerity.
She rummaged in her closet for an outfit, humming her own name under her breath like a mantra. "Something casual but not too casual. Cute but not looking like I tried. Not vulnerable but not icy either. Normal, Clara. Just be normal." Her hair stayed unbrushed, curling into surprisingly perfect waves without her effort. Her outfit selected itself from the hangers—a simple cream blouse and a navy skirt—almost as if an invisible stylist knew exactly what vibe Clara needed today. With a sweep of her hand, the blouse floated into her arms. The skirt followed, descending gently to her feet. Clara blinked at the empty space. She shrugged and slid them on; the only magic she recognized was within her own chest, fluttering at a frightening pace.
The small orchid on her windowsill, which had been tightly closed all winter, suddenly gave a tiny sneeze and bloomed one small pink flower as she passed by. Clara caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of her eye. "Great, even the plant's pining for today," she teased in her mind, settling on a pair of ankle boots. The flower's petals opened wider, like an audience applauding. She smiled and did a mock bow for the orchid. She could not say whether it was pride or relief, but somewhere between embarrassment and excitement, Clara realized her grin was irrepressible.
So, coffee. She left her apartment with her keys jingling in one hand and a mixture of dread and delight in the other. Each step she took felt weighted with unsaid possibility. Outside, the city's morning bustle hummed around her—cars honking, dogs barking, the distant wail of a siren merging with the aroma of fresh pastries from the bakery down the street. Today, those ordinary sounds felt infused with quiet magic, as if the entire world held its breath, curious to see what would happen next.
Clara's thoughts raced as she walked. Don't trip on the curb again today. Do not spew all the details of your teenage diary to Mark.Act natural (whatever that means). She mentally rehearsed a greeting to Mark, likely a grinning "Hey," and nothing about last night. But, she scolded herself silently, if he brings it up… Try not to fall out of your chair into his lap.
The cafe door swung open, and there was Mark, leaning against the counter with that gentle, awkward smile she adored. He looked up from his phone and his face brightened like he'd been expecting her every second. Those warm brown eyes darted away nervously, and he cleared his throat. Mark wore a soft gray cardigan over a crisp white shirt; he'd skipped the tie today, opting for something cozy—a perfect balance of effort and ease. Clara felt momentarily dazzled. But even he didn't look fully composed; in fact, he seemed as thunderously vulnerable as she felt inside.
"Morning, Clara," he said, voice rough with a yawn or nerves—it was impossible to tell. He pushed his glasses up, blinking as if trying to gather himself. "Didn't mean to keep you waiting."
"You sure you don't want to come back tomorrow?" she teased lightly, though her heart flitted like a frantic hummingbird. Nice one, Clara, total smooth. Her hand reached for the door, inwardly aghast at her attempt to sound flippant.
"No, no. I… I mean I was early." Mark stepped aside and gestured for her to enter the cafe. The tile floor was warm under her feet, and the rich smell of espresso greeted her. Inside, a gentle hum of music and conversation felt calming, the perfect background to mitigate a breakout of real emotions.
Clara slipped into the booth opposite Mark, tucking her legs under her dress and gathering her composure. The mirror from home might have been a chatty companion this morning, but here she had only her own racing heart and a cup of coffee to talk to.
They ordered their drinks—Clara a latte, Mark black—and then turned to each other with that awkward mixed expression neither envy nor fear could name. Both were resisting a torrent of words.
Mark cleared his throat again and gave a shaky grin. "You look… nice," he said, both pleased and embarrassed. His compliment was sincere, and Clara felt herself flush into her cheeks. Somehow it was more intimate to hear that spoken, simple as it was.
"You look good, too," she managed. It felt flimsy, but it was true. Mark had this way of looking at her like he could hear the nervous clatter in her head and still be wholly present.
A waitress arrived with their coffees—a steaming mug for Clara, black drip for Mark—and cinnamon rolls dusted with sugar in the center of the table. The little bird-sound jingle of a bell announced every new patron at the door, and Clara's nerves fluttered again, but she squashed it. It was okay. They were here now, face-to-face, stealing morning moments like truant adolescents skipping class.
They sipped quietly at first, sending each other nervous glances over the rims of their mugs. Clara tasted the bitterness of the coffee and thought it mirrored her own coated tongue, but she felt steadier than she expected. Mark drew a slow breath, like a diver steadying himself before plunging underwater.
"So," he said, his voice breaking the silence with an earnest timbre, "last night was... fun."
Clara nearly choked on her coffee. But Mark smiled, meeting her eyes. There was no judgment in his gaze, only warmth and a tease of vulnerability. He hadn't run away. Somehow, that made Clara believe, just a little, that this morning was possible.
"Yeah," she answered softly. "It was." She let herself glide back in the booth, coffee cup cradled between both hands. The cinnamon roll in front of her was a sweet salve to her nerves. She took a bite, biting into cinnamon-fluffed pastry; sugary crumbs fell onto the table. Mark leaned forward to catch them, but she burst into laughter at the farce of it. "Ah! I'm sorry. I'm all over the place today."
"You're not alone," Mark said, chuckling. "I spent half the night overthinking, and the other half wondering what you were up to."
Clara raised an eyebrow. "Did you try talking to your mirror about me, too?" she teased, recalling her own conversation with her reflection. Mark rolled his eyes playfully.
"Mirror? No, but I did give an impromptu motivation speech to the house plants." He gestured behind him. Clara followed the gesture and saw a couple of happy succulents perched on the counter. One of them had a crooked smile drawn in marker.
"Oh! Pfft! You did not," she said, stifling laughter. "Tell me you gave them pearls of wisdom."
"Sure," Mark grinned, "something like 'life is short, have that cookie now, and maybe buy a bigger pot while you're at it.'"
Clara laughed aloud, glad for any excuse to relax. The table between them suddenly felt more like a small sanctuary rather than a barrier. They settled into an easy banter for a few moments, sipping their coffee and joking about trivial morning stuff.
But soon enough, conversation turned deeper. Mark shifted and sat up straight, his expression gentle. "Do you mind if I ask… how do you like coffee with me? This quiet of the morning?"
Clara blinked at the straightforward question. She realized he wasn't making small talk for its own sake. "Of course not," she said carefully. "I… I really like it. I like this." Her heart thumped. She gestured between them. "Being here, like this."
Mark's mouth quirked into a relieved smile. His hand reached across the table, covering hers. Not an affectionate reach—gentle, solid and reassuring. Clara felt the warmth of his palm through her long-sleeved blouse and felt safe for the moment.
"You really look…" he started, then paused. "You look content." His eyes were concerned. "Clara, do you—are you okay? I mean, I know last night was a lot, and I don't want you to feel pressured…"
Clara shook her head, slightly. "No, I'm okay. No pressure. I—" She hesitated, searching for the truth amid her jittery thoughts. "Actually, it's nice. This… morning. It's been a while since I've done anything like this on purpose." Her lips teased into a bittersweet smile. "Actually had a reason to get up early and look forward to it. Last night was unexpected, but in a good way." She took a breath and realized she hadn't realized how much she meant those words.
Mark smiled softly. "Clara," he said quietly, "thank you."
They both fell silent for a moment. Each sipping coffee, warming their hands, letting the other fill space with presence rather than words.
Clara's mind, however, was spinning ahead. She had so much she wanted to say: about her fears of not being taken seriously beyond her looks, of feeling like her boundaries were being tested, and how—no, how maybe Mark was starting to make some of those lines blur. Instead of those complicated things, her mouth opened with another confession. "You know," she began, "I used to think I had this clear distinction of who I was. In my head it was like, Clara—the smart, sarcastic girl who gets things done, versus Clara—the pretty one people always look at first. And the second Clara annoyed me, because it felt like all people ever saw." Mark nodded, giving her a full minute to lay her thoughts out.
"You have every right to be annoyed," he said. "My mom's always telling me I'm so nice it's a flaw. She means, like, too trusting or something. It really bugs me." His fingers drummed lightly on the table. "Then I'm like—so what, being kind is a flaw? My dad's a drill sergeant with a heart of brass, and he always says, 'Real men don't wear pink.' But I just… I like pink. I pick fights with my dad about it. It's ridiculous, but sometimes I wonder if I'm even a real Mark because I like the color pink and I cried reading the end of Winnie-the-Pooh." He ducked his head and gave a laugh, but Clara saw his eyes were wet.
She realized he was telling her exactly what she needed to hear. "It's not ridiculous at all," she found herself saying, reaching out to touch his hand. "I mean—Winnie-the-Pooh, right? Bring on the tissues, Mark. Anyone who watches Eeyore cry isn't lacking anything." The joke came out quieter than intended, but he laughed.
"Winnie-the-Pooh," he agreed solemnly. "Real men wear pink." They high-fived across the table, and for a second the conversation was light again, like sand under a gently lapping wave.
But then a silence fell. Clara realized their eyes had locked in mutual understanding, a gentle grounding of trust growing between them. She knew this was the part of the morning she had been most afraid of, and yet she felt braver than ever to continue.
"Can I tell you something a bit… personal?" she asked softly.
Mark squeezed her hand. "I'd like that, if you do."
When she met his eyes, she spoke slowly and carefully. "I've… never had someone want me to be exactly who I am." Her voice trembled a touch. "Everyone's always been looking for something. Charm, or humor, or—honesty. But usually only when it's on their terms. The funny girl, the nice girl, the pretty girl." She let her gaze drop to the table. "I mean… I like being liked, but I'm afraid if people stop liking me, I'll have no idea who I am without a label to fit into."
Mark nodded empathetically. "That sounds… really hard, Clara. But I'm glad you told me."
Clara raised her eyebrows with tentative hope. "I'm still me, you know?" she continued. "The same girl who does improv, who writes these little cartoons and stories in her sketchbook, who tries to solve everyone else's problems but is horrible at accepting help. I'm a disaster behind the steering wheel… and I cry at weddings when I have no idea who the couple is." She laughed weakly, covering her face with a hand. Mark chuckled too, reassuring her it was okay to be vulnerable.
Mark's turn: "When I was seven, I wanted to be a knight. Like, the knight," he said with an earnest shrug. "I think I read too many fairy tales and decided the boy-knight character was all adventure and no reason to wear pink armor. My dad taught me how to tie my first tie because he told me real knights must always look sharp even if they're off to save a princess. I tried to tell him they should just save the princess in sweatpants instead, but it never took. Ever since then, in some weird way, wearing a tie feels like armor to me." He paused. "But I'm also terrified of snakes. I had a pet goldfish named Sir Swish for two whole weeks until I got paranoid he was planning an escape."
Clara giggled at that. "Sir Swish?"
"Yes, Sir Swish, noble knight of the hour." Mark grinned. "And by an hour, I mean fifteen minutes. He was a high-maintenance fish."
Their laughter melted away anything leftover awkwardness. The morning sun reached the table across from the window, casting a warm glow that made the specks of sugar on Clara's cinnamon roll shine like stars.
Suddenly, as if underscoring Mark's fishy anecdote, a small raggedy bird squawked loudly at the window just behind him. Mark startled and almost spilled his coffee. He leaped back, and Clara's cup wobbled too. In the moment of chaos, her latte splashed out of the mug and landed squarely on the table between them. A dramatic puddle of milky brown formed around the fork and napkin.
"Oh, shit," Clara blurted out, mortified.
Mark's eyes widened. "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry!" He grabbed napkins, pressing them onto the spilt coffee like a war medic. A minute ago he was being vulnerable about goldfish; now he was flapping about coffee.
Clara's panic fizzled into laughter. It was ridiculous how desperately earnest Mark had become, scrubbing at the table like it was stained with sin. The bird outside fluffed its feathers triumphantly, perhaps pleased at the commotion.
"It's fine!" she managed between giggles. "Don't worry, it's just coffee. Like magic, it's gonna evaporate any second now." She gestured flamboyantly at the drink with one hand, and the tableside cloth with the other.
Mark looked sheepish and knocked the last of his trembling cup down on the table. The caffeine sank in to steady him. "Really, I should've been more careful." He shook his head and then laughed at his own panic. "We nearly lost the entire roll and possibly part of this tablecloth."
The tension of sincerity broke completely, and both of them dissolved into shared laughter. The previous deep conversation was quickly turning into the morning's greatest comedy routine. Clara felt more alive with the sincerity of their exchange and the silliness of the spilled coffee. It was like their friendship was expanding with every moment, casually embracing both the emotional and the absurd.
Recovering composure, Clara glanced at Mark. "Are you okay?" she asked, catching onto a new sincerity in his eyes.
He nodded, then pointed to a site outside the window, getting modest again. There, a small, scruffy tabby cat sat on the ledge, blinking nonchalantly. "I swear, it knocked the cup with its tail," Mark joked.
Clara followed his gaze. The cat eyed them, pondering perhaps whether the scratched latte art was to its liking. Then, with the casual attitude of a connoisseur, it sniffed the air and meowed in satisfaction—like it was approving their date. The absurdity of the situation made Clara laugh again. What a day, she thought, a flower blossoming of laughter in her chest.
Mark waved at the cat and smiled. "Well, it seems we have an audience now," he said lightly. "At least someone's interested in our coffee spill."
"Next time," Clara said, raising her recovered cup, "we pick a date with less bird and cat interference."
He laughed and clinked his mug against hers in a gentle toast. Their eyes met warmly across the white-speckled table.
"Thank you, Clara," Mark said softly after another moment, "for being here. For this." He waved his arm between them, encompassing the morning itself.
Clara felt the sincerity in his words and smiled from the heart. "Thank you, Mark, for being here with me. For the day."
After they finished their drinks and cleaned up the remaining mess (the waitress had thankfully already cleaned off the table before cat decided to be a coffee critic), they decided to leave. The conversation remained easy, peppered with jokes and sidelong compliments as they walked out together.
Clara had scribbled something on a stray napkin without Mark noticing, while he had leaned against the door waiting for her. Together they stepped onto the sidewalk, where the spring day had grown noticeably warmer.
Walking beside Mark felt surreal but natural, like her feet had finally decided what they wanted all along. They strolled down the block toward the park, side by side like two friends on the verge of something new. Clara's sketchbook clutched loosely in her hand from the inside pocket, the morning sun dappling through the budding trees overhead.
Feeling playful, Clara pulled out a pen and folded the napkin. Halfway down the block, she peeked at Mark's profile and a grin tugged at her lips. Then, as they turned a corner by a statue of a poet in a small plaza, she leaned against the wall and quietly drew.
Within seconds, Clara had sketched a quick, silly cartoon. In it, they were stick figures: Mark with his trademark bespectacled grin and Clara with her teased hair and mocking expression. Around them, hearts and coffees. Beneath the cartoon, in her tidy script, she wrote: "Clara & Mark: Survived the Unlikely Mess."
Mark finished a sentence and caught her by surprise, "That about sums it up."
He followed her gaze to the napkin, eyes lighting up at the goofy doodle. His mouth formed a slow smile. "Clara," he said, voice quiet with a new emotion, "this is—this is the best thing I have ever seen drawn on a napkin."
She felt warmth in her cheeks. "It was either that or a poorly drawn frog. I think you may have dodged a bullet." She said it jokingly, but watched Mark's reaction.
He chuckled softly, carefully refolding the napkin and tucking it into his pocket. "No, it's—this is wonderful. Thank you."
Mark's sincerity made Clara's heart swell. In that hug of a moment, with casual park-goers strolling behind them, Clara realized how far they'd come in just a few hours. Their friendship might still be playful, but it now felt anchored in something real. Something she'd sketched out in lines and hearts under a cavalier note about mishaps.
They continued walking toward the park's entrance. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees in waves of honeyed warmth. Laughter and distant music spilled out from a few open coffee shops. Clara and Mark slid into the lively park path, children playing and dogs running.
A lively old woman with a tambourine was moving slowly along a path beside them, playing a cheerful tune. A couple by her side danced themselves; no one else nearby seemed to mind. The moment had a fairy-tale quality, the city and their morning softening into a kind of magical realism. The rays of the sun swooped down like benedictions, and among the trees, the lights from the streetlamps left on for the early twilight dimmed slightly, making the greenery glow brighter in celebration.
Mark paused and looked back at Clara, a grin on his face. Something about the music pulled him, and before Clara could react, he extended his hand towards her. His eyes danced as if saying "It's now or never—dance."
Clara hesitated, then placed her hand in his. "What are you—" she started, but Mark tugged her gently forward, bobbing to the rhythm as if he had been secretly taking salsa classes for just this moment.
"Come on," he laughed quietly, pulling her into an impromptu embrace.
In a scene so magical it might have been dreamt up by a child, Clara found herself dancing. The park path was their ballroom floor, the sun their spotlight, the tambourine the orchestra. She let herself sway with Mark, stepping carefully at first, then more freely. The park around them receded; only the two of them and the music seemed to exist.
A small terrier that had been sniffing the ground nearby suddenly lifted its muzzle and barked once, sharply, as if on cue—a joyful acquittal for their steps. A robin perched on a low branch seemed to sing along, its chirps perfectly keeping the tempo. A streetlamp overhead dimmed, letting the golden twilight shine through, as though giving them privacy in a spotlight.
Clara didn't stop the smile, even though part of her thought it was possibly too ridiculous. She just followed where Mark led, laughing softly when he attempted to dip her out of good manners and nearly toppled both of them.
Mark's hand was warm at the small of her back, guiding her gently. This time it wasn't because her heart was beating so hard it needed an anchor; this was comfort, closeness. Clara realized she fit so well in his arms that they could stand like this forever.
The tambourine beat slowed, and the dancing couple parted with a laugh. Clara and Mark stumbled back to the park bench near the statue of the poet. Catching her breath, Clara sat, cheeks still tingling with happiness. The afterglow of the music still rang in her head as gently as the robin's chirp.
When Mark sat beside her, the grass and trees around them responded. The fern fronds rustled in their absence of sound, like they too had been caught up in a dance of leaves and light.
"Wow," Clara finally exhaled, leaning back on the bench. "I feel... rejuvenated."
Mark grinned, stretching out an arm along the top of the bench behind her. "That felt amazing, Clara. You look amazing."
"Thanks," she said, twisting to nudge him. "You sure played that tango like your life depended on it."
"Hey," Mark raised his eyebrows, "you know me—never lost an imaginary sword fight yet." He made a playful bow, but his expression softened.
Clara's gaze softened too, and she noticed that the magic wasn't only in the environment but in him, right there with her. She saw lines of contentment in his eyes.
They sat together and let the park's symphony of quiet life wash over them: the distant bark of a dog greeting its owner, wind chimes gently chiming on someone's porch, children squealing with delight on the swings. Every sound felt melodic; every breath around them was a note in the music of the day.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and Clara glanced at the screen. Work call - ignore, it said. She thought of her desk with its mess of post-it notes and the afternoon stack of papers that wouldn't mind waiting. Today wouldn't mind either, apparently.
Instead, Clara remained on the bench, knees up to her chest, looking at Mark. He was watching a couple of ducks in the pond beside them, his hands loosely folded. Something was beating in her chest: not quite anxiety, more like excitement tempered by happiness. She knew this feeling—like when you're about to tell a story at the right moment, or the instant before a surprise.
"Could we… maybe…" Mark cleared his throat softly. He looked up at her, face suddenly earnest in the bright daylight. Clara felt a jolt of electricity at the directness of his gaze.
He reached for her hand. In that simple movement her breath lodged in her throat. "Thank you," he said, voice a notch low, "for today. For just... being so brave with me."
Brave? Clara's throat tightened. The word felt heavy and golden. She had never thought of herself as especially brave—just sarcastic, funny, a bit of a control freak. But Mark saw more than that.
"I should be thanking you," she whispered, her voice trembling with sincerity. "I... I didn't think I could do things like this. Go on a proper morning date, talk, dance—stop worrying that I'm not enough. But you... you make it easier, Mark." Her words came out softly, honest. "Thank you for being here with me. It means everything that you are."
Mark's lips parted in a gentle smile that cut through Clara's nerves, blinding any lingering doubt. He shifted, and the air between them felt thick with something palpable.
All laughter and conversation faded away, and the moment grew quiet around them—just their breathing and the gentle rustle of the park. Clara felt the sun retreating behind a cloud, the shadows of nearby trees cooling the bench just a bit. The world had smoothed into a hush, as if every blade of grass and chirp of birds were awaiting what came next.
She looked at Mark's face, at his steady expression. He leaned forward slowly, his eyes asking permission. His hand still held hers but had inched slightly toward her cheek. Clara's heart hammered in a surprising beat of calm and expectancy.
When their lips met, it was gentle and warm. No flash of fairy lights, just the soft quiet of the world acknowledging their first real kiss. Clara felt the softness of his lips and the sincerity of the moment pressed into her. It was simple and real, just like them in this moment, without any magic beyond what they already had.
Mark's other hand cradled her waist; Clara leaned into the kiss as if it were a question whose answer she already knew. The kiss didn't last long, but it left them both smiling like children with secrets. Breathing lightly, they separated slowly. Clara brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and caught Mark's eye. He looked as though he'd just discovered something miraculous, and in a way, they both had.
"Clara," Mark whispered, a contented happiness in his voice.
"Yeah?" She couldn't keep the smile from her voice either.
He chuckled softly. "I always thought morning light would feel warm at my back, not on my face."
Clara felt an overwhelming gratitude. She leaned forward impulsively and kissed him again, brief and sweet, just to seal that gratitude into a timeless little moment in the air. "Welcome," she teased, in between giggles. "Sunlight is a bit of an amateur compared to me."
He laughed too, head tilting back slightly. Then, careful as possible, Mark took Clara's hand again. Together they walked on. The sounds of the park returned, the shrubs and trees whispering at them.
At the foot of Clara's apartment building, Mark walked her to the door. They paused at the bottom of the stairs, the air turning cooler, more evening than afternoon. Clara pulled out her keys, and in a tender silence, closed the distance between them once more.
His hand found hers, entwining their fingers. The world felt gentle around them now. Mark's eyes searched hers. He leaned in and kissed her softly a third time — not because he needed to, but just because neither seemed to want to end what they had.
Their lips separated slowly. For a heartbeat, they simply held each other's gaze. Clara's heartbeat had finally found a slower pace, synchronized with his.
Then, just as Mark was about to break the silence and wave goodbye, a voice boomed from behind them.
"Yo, Clara!"
Clara's body froze. Greg, her older coworker and resident comedian, had just turned the corner. He was strolling up the street with a couple of pizza boxes in hand. "I have your pizza!" he shouted cheerfully, not realizing he was interrupting.
Greg had been enlisted by Clara a week ago to order dinner, and indeed, his timing was impeccable. Only, he hadn't expected a boudoir scene or a prolonged goodbye at her front door.
Clara flushed scarlet, letting go of Mark's hand to grab the railing for balance. Mark, hand still resting softly on Clara's back from their hug, unconsciously straightened and parted his lips to greet Greg.
"Oh! Hey, Greg," Mark said calmly, holding out a palm in introduction as though he and Clara had been having a completely normal farewell.
Greg blinked at this. Mark? Mark the shy guy who spilled coffee? Shook his hand? His confusion turned to suspicion. But Greg was nothing if not friendly. He beamed. "Mark, right? You two know each other?"
Clara nearly died inside from embarrassment, a mix of mortification and secret delight. Mark was here — he was still here. She trembled as Greg crossed the threshold, pizza in hand.
"I thought you were Mark's friend!" Greg said, still in introduction mode, grinning as he reached out to shake Mark's hand vigorously. Clara's stomach flipflopped.
Mark, equally bewildered, shook Greg's hand with a good-natured "Pleased to meet you."
"What's happening here?" Greg asked innocently, pizza boxes cradled under his arm, oblivious to anything beyond the sight of two flustered young adults.
Mark and Clara had to step slightly apart, releasing the intimate closeness they'd just shared. Mark scratched the back of his neck and forced a laugh. "Just saying goodbye, Greg," he said, voice smooth. "Clara, thanks for today."
Clara managed a strained smile. "Thanks for dinner, Greg." Her tone was friendly but vaguely frantic.
Greg ambled inside with the pizzas. Mark and Clara exchanged quick glances. She saw the twinkle in his eyes, amused but sympathetic.
"Well," she whispered, mostly to herself as Mark gave her a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "That was... one for the books."
Mark laughed quietly. He glanced at Clara, eyes alive with amusement. "Nice to know I can finally be properly introduced," he teased softly.
Clara covered her face with her hand, peeking through her fingers. She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "You. Are. So. Incredibly," she paused to find the word, eyes twinkling now with mixed embarrassment and excitement, "here at just the right time."
Mark placed a finger under her chin, tilting her face up to his. "Worth it," he said quietly, sincerity clear on his face. "Meeting Greg is worth a thousand shaky kisses."
Clara rolled her eyes, but her grin said everything he needed to know. In that moment of ridiculousness and truth, she realized how perfectly absurd and wonderful this day had been.
They parted with one last brief laugh — Mark giving a little salute as he backed away — and Clara closed the door behind her. Inside, the remnants of daylight streamed through the windows, and Clara stood for just a second in the glow. Her cheeks still hurt from smiling.
As the door clicked shut, Clara realized she was supposed to be mortified. Her heart had traded shame for warmth, embarrassment for excitement. Mortified and thrilled, just like the instructions in a romantic comedy.
She leaned against the door and took a deep breath, feeling a fullness in her chest that even the coffee hadn't managed to quell. Today, like a chapter closing itself with perfect punctuation, had given her something remarkable.
Outside, the lights in the hallway flickered on. She knew Mark had gone—perhaps jogging back to his apartment—his presence lingering like a song's last note. Inside her own quiet apartment, Clara finally let that full, joyous laugh out, and the walls seemed to echo it back to her in approval.
Tomorrow, the mirror might judge her with some smug grin or that plant might taunt her over coffee. But today? Today, she walked out a different way from how she'd walked in.
She set the pizza boxes on the counter, deciding that dinner could wait. Tomorrow or Monday, at least, the office would survive without her. For once, Clara wanted to savor the sweetness of the moment.
And as she wandered back to the mirror—honoring that moment again with a silent nod to the glass that had winked at her this morning—she caught her own reflection smiling back like an old friend finally at peace. The orchid on the sill was tilting curiously towards the mirror, as if noting that its work here was done. Clara realized that just maybe, the morning had been right.
Between the two of them, Clara and her reflection exchanged one more knowing glance. They'd been on the brink of something. In silence, they understood it all: sometimes all you really need are a couple of heartbeats in silence to say something worth a lifetime.
And tonight, Clara did not feel alone in hearing them.
Chapter 17: A Kiss Interrupted
The city's skyline blushed gold as evening spilled from the sky over Manhattan, its lights flickering on like distant stars responding to the sunset. Clara stood beside Mark on the sidewalk just a breath after their first kiss, heart fluttering like a caged bird set free for a moment. A cool October breeze drifted in from the Hudson, carrying faint church bells and the distant wail of a ferry horn. She took in the scene: yellow taxi fumes mingling with the scent of autumn leaves underfoot and steam rising from hot pretzel carts on the corner. The air was crisp, but neither of them seemed to notice the chill.
"Oh, come on, Greg," Clara said lightly as a familiar voice charged up behind them. She almost fell off the curb from surprise as Greg barreled around the corner, eyes wide with worshipful awe. He looked at Clara like she'd returned from a quest to Tibet or something remarkable — as if she held the secrets of the universe in that elegant wool coat. Greg yelped when he realized she was standing not with a rock star or prince, but with Mark: an average guy pushing thirty in a sharp suit and gray wool overcoat. Clara had practically glided over from the steps of the café, carrying her sketchbook, but to Greg it looked like she'd magically appeared.
Clara immediately wanted to press an imaginary "rewind" button. This was just like every other time Greg had misread a romantic pause of hers – only this time the pause had ended with a kiss. She slipped between them, one slender hand gently on Greg's shoulder to stall him. With a mild, playful smile she said, "Hey, no need for the wingman act just yet. I might not be up for the sequel." Mark's hand, still dangling near his coat pocket, floated awkwardly. Clara noted with a sinking feeling that he didn't immediately chuckle or break eye contact as he usually might.
"So," Greg said cheerfully, oblivious to the tension, "how was the party, Clara? Tell me everything! What did it feel like — victory or defeat?" He beamed at Mark, as if gathering data. Clara raised an eyebrow, arms involuntarily crossing over her chest. "I'm not sure if the 'victory or defeat' question is meant for me or for the salad," she replied dryly, giving Greg her patented witty grin. She slid her fingers into her coat pockets, brushing the smooth leather of her phone as she talked. It was a little cruel to laugh when she felt uneasy, but Greg needed a hint that she was uncomfortable.
Mark was leaning against the brick wall of a closed bodega across the street, his untouched cup of coffee still in hand. The streetlight above cast pale shadows across his face, where a crease of worry had formed between his dark eyebrows. He took a slow, practiced sip — Clara remembered it was decaf — but it did nothing to hide his anxiety. Clara noticed Mark's eyes flicking between her and Greg every few seconds, as if trying to decipher whether she was genuinely joking or hurt. The late-evening city sounds — the distant taxi horns, a busker's strum, footfalls on concrete — fell oddly silent in her head as she focused on him.
For a moment it was quiet enough that Clara could hear a distant cyclist ringing his bell as he negotiated a crosswalk, and a dog's tag clinking from a block away. Her witty outer shell began to crack a little as she watched Mark dodge her gaze. All at once she felt very aware of how many pairs of eyes might be on her — the mailman on the corner adjusting his bag in her direction, a pigeon preening on a nearby fire escape, even the neon "OPEN" sign blinking in the deli across the street. In truth, Mark wasn't even looking at her; he was staring into his coffee, deep in thought, but Clara felt every moment of silence broadcast to her like a spotlight.
"Uh, bye, Clara," Greg chirped after a bit, deciding the scene had turned from fascinating to awkward. He slung an arm around her shoulders in a friendly — though startlingly intimate — way and started backing toward their building's entrance. "You guys figure this out, alright? Call me later with the director's cut — preferably in IMAX," he teased with a wink. Clara twisted easily in his grip, flashing him a grin meant to reassure. "You'll get whatever you paid for, Greg," she said, placing a playful emphasis on the last word. The familiar banter was only slightly comforting now, as if she were reciting it by reflex.
When Greg disappeared into the warm glow of the lobby, Mark finally turned fully to Clara, shoulders suddenly tensing. The ambient hum of the city returned around them, seizing the silence once more. Clara exhaled softly, nearly forgetting she was holding her breath. She felt the cool night air prick her cheeks and looked at Mark, heart pounding as she closed the final foot of distance between them. Her stomach did a little flip — it was his move now. "So, um…" she began, voice casual as if they were still discussing the deli specials. It came out a bit breathless. "How are you feeling?" she added, carefully.
They stood there under the streetlight, both quiet. Clara waited. Whatever else he was feeling, she could guess one key thing: he was debating whether that kiss had been real or just a fluke. Her breathing sharpened, and she clutched her sketchbook tighter under her arm. She wasn't usually this vulnerable — especially not over something this small — but there it was, between them: an unspoken question. The night pressed around them, and for a long moment, Clara could do nothing but wait for him to answer.
Clara paced in her sunlit kitchen the next morning, gripping her phone like a lifeline. The little bubble with Mark's name glared at her, stubbornly refusing to change. She had sent "Hey, good morning :)" hours ago, and the silence was deafening. The "seen" indicator was a raw reminder — two little ticks without a single word in return. The cereal in her bowl had gone soggy from neglect, steam still rising in lazy spirals from the cold coffee cup on the counter. Through the window she watched joggers pass by, their breaths pluming in the cool air, blissfully unaware of the tension in her kitchen.
By early afternoon she found herself refreshing her messages almost as often as she refreshed her social media feed, as if Mark might magically appear on the other end. Maybe he's trapped in an endless legal deposition? she wondered wryly, recalling how it was for him to get swallowed by work. Each time she glared at her phone, the little spinning "sending…" wheel made her stomach drop another inch. In an attempt to distract herself, Clara shoved piles of laundry around on her bed, rearranged her books on the shelf alphabetically, and even rearranged her furniture. But with every sigh of effort, her eyes kept darting back to the screen.
The afternoon sunlight turned the living room golden, and finally the silence was broken by a buzz. Clara nearly knocked over a stack of sketchpads reaching for her phone as it vibrated. Her voice caught in her throat as she answered, "H-Hello?" On the other end, Mark was quiet for a moment before saying softly, "Hey." The single syllable felt punishingly loud over the line. Clara could almost hear the faint click-click of his office keyboard in the background. Her heart twisted at how distant he sounded — like he was miles away under fluorescent lights instead of right there talking to her.
Clara forced a breezy tone. "Ah, the glamorous lawyer life," she teased lightly. "About time you called — did you have to hike Everest to get reception?" She tried to match her irritation with humor. There was a pause, then Mark's voice softened. He admitted he'd missed her messages, that he was swamped at work and should have replied sooner. Clara felt some of her anxiety ease at least a little. "Good," she quipped. "Next time you climb Everest, I expect a postcard." A short laugh finally returned from the other end, and for a second Clara imagined he was smiling.
Clara nodded, even though he couldn't see her. "Yeah, busy is an excuse I know all too well," she said, prolonging the words playfully. On her end of the line, she could almost picture him straightening his tie or rubbing his eyes at the office. After a beat he said he really had to get back to a pressing case file. Clara decided to try one more joke. "So," she said, "you should've won me some coffee for all that waiting — I was thisclose to teleporting to the nearest Starbucks." Mark finally let out a genuine chuckle at that. "I owe you at least that, then," he replied with a hint of warmth.
When he apologized again and said goodnight, Clara managed, "No problem, Mark. We'll chat soon, okay?" His response was quick: Okay. Then the line went dead. Clara held the phone to her ear for a moment longer, listening to the dial tone fade, then pressed it against her chest. In the golden light of late afternoon, she felt oddly more alone than before the call. The apartment around her seemed too quiet now, almost echoing the emptiness of her thoughts. She had tried to keep it together, but on the inside she felt like a cracked porcelain doll, fragile and unsure what would happen next.
The café was a small sunlit corner of the city, with green wooden tables under striped awnings and the rich smell of roasted beans drifting in the air. Clara arrived first, smoothing her hair back nervously and taking a seat outside, the afternoon light making the sunflowers in her scarf glow. She watched people amble by — cyclists weaving through traffic, tourists snapping photos of the city's old brick buildings, office workers hurrying past with briefcases and lunch bags. Around her, gentle jazz music played from hidden speakers, and the clink of coffee cups on saucers provided a soothing rhythm.
Mark arrived just then, approaching with a hesitant smile. He wore a blue dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the top button undone, looking both formal and slightly rumpled. He ran a hand through his dark hair and cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "I… I need to say something," he began, voice low and nervous. Clara felt her stomach do a flip. He searched her face for understanding. "Yesterday, after the kiss… I wasn't sure if it was real or some kind of…" He trailed off, clearly struggling for words. The pause hung between them like a held breath. Clara's mouth opened and closed. Was he serious? she thought. "What do you mean?" she asked carefully, though her own heart was hammering.
Mark took a slow breath. "I mean… you're so pretty, Clara. People throw lines like 'too good to be true' at you all the time." He finally met her eyes, looking both confused and sincere. "I guess I thought maybe my friend was joking, or that maybe you felt like you had to prove something to me." His words tumbled out, apologetic and earnest. Clara stared down at the tabletop, her fingers curling around the edge. Oh gods, she thought, he thinks I'm playing a game. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
She took a slow breath and looked up at him, eyes glistening slightly. Reaching across the small table, Clara gently touched Mark's hand. "I really meant it," she said softly. "I remember it so clearly — where we stood, how the light hit your face…" She paused, trying to steady her voice. "I've never done anything on a dare or as a joke. When I kissed you, it was because… I wanted to see if you felt the same way." Her voice shook a little as she continued, "I wasn't hoping for a prank; I was hoping you'd kiss me back."
Mark stared at her for a moment, processing, then finally managed a weak smile. He admitted he'd been scared. "I've been burned by people before," he confessed quietly. "By people who didn't really care about what was inside me." His eyes met hers, and Clara felt relief ripple through her. "I'm sorry I doubted you," he said. He squeezed her hand, sincere and gentle.
They sat there a moment, listening to the distant clatter of dishes and the winking sunlight on the café wall. Suddenly, Mark cracked a smile. "I guess I owe you big time," he said, voice steadier now. "At the very least two coffees." Clara chuckled despite herself and let out a small breath. In that instant, the anxiety inside her drained away. The sky outside was turning soft pink, and for the first time in days, everything felt simpler and just a little bit magical. The only thing that mattered was the warmth of Mark's hand in hers and the fact that, yes, this was really happening.
Clara spent the next afternoon in a quiet corner of Central Park, settled on a wrought-iron bench near a gently babbling fountain. The mid-afternoon sun filtered through tall oak leaves, casting dappled patterns across her lap. Families picnicked on the grass nearby, and an elderly man napped on another bench a few feet away. Clara held her sketchbook open on her lap and stared at it, pencil in hand, letting the calm sounds of the park wrap around her tension.
She began to sketch out the scene from her mind: first the street corner on 8th Avenue, then Greg's astonished face, and finally Mark's frowning expression. With each carefully placed pencil stroke, something odd began to happen. The thin graphite lines on the paper seemed to ripple as though an invisible breeze were lifting them. Clara blinked in surprise as the drawings gently swirled on the page. In her mind's eye, she imagined the drawn Mark leaning in from the paper toward her. The city around her — the swaying trees and distant lawn lamps — seemed to join the dance of her memory.
Watching this gentle magic unfold, Clara felt a surprising clarity. The little ghostly figures in her sketch gradually faded away, as though dissolving in morning sunlight. In their place she drew something new: a pair of hands reaching across the page and clasping together firmly. The message was unmistakable. Clara closed the sketchbook softly and tucked it under her arm. Patience and trust, she whispered out loud. She let the quiet park settle around her a moment longer, heart lighter. By the time shadows lengthened on the grass, she knew exactly what she needed to do: stay patient, wait for Mark, and trust that this was something real.
By evening the park was quiet, lit by golden lamplight and the deep blue of twilight. Clara arrived first at their bench by the fountain, the wooden slats still warm from the day. She pulled her coat a little tighter and waited, glancing at her watch. The air was crisp enough to see her breath as little wisps. A few late walkers strolled by, all bundled up under the streetlights.
A light breeze rustled the fallen leaves around Clara's feet. She smoothed her hair nervously and took in the earthy smell of the park. Mark stepped beneath the arch of an oak tree and slid onto the bench beside Clara. He ran a hand through his dark hair and offered her a shy smile. "Clara, I'm sorry," he began, voice quiet and earnest. "Yesterday, when I hesitated, I panicked. I thought… I might be overreacting." His gaze was steady and filled with relief. Clara felt tears of relief prick her eyes. "It wasn't a joke," she said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "I meant it, Mark. This was real to me."
They turned to face the softly glowing fountain between them. Mark took a breath and whispered, "I guess I was scared because I like you a lot. I wasn't sure if I should trust that feeling." Clara leaned closer and rested her head on his shoulder. She squeezed his hand back. They sat there in silence for a moment, listening to the gentle splash of water and the distant hush of the city.
Mark finally exhaled and managed a relieved smile. "So… I guess this is real," he said quietly, sounding happy and shy at once. Clara nodded and squeezed his hand again. She turned her head to him with a grin. "You know," she said softly, "in the end, the truth was the only map we needed." Mark chuckled and slid an arm around her shoulders. They stayed like that, shoulders touching, watching the city lights dance on the fountain's water. Tonight, Clara realized, they really were on the same page.