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The answer takes longer this time. When it finally arrives, it’s brutally simple.

How?

Come meet me downstairs. I’m parked outside the hotel. Let me take you somewhere.

Absolutely not.

Why not?

Because you literally ignored me for two weeks, called me a child, and now you’re parked outside my hotel like a stalker and demanding I get in your car.

Do you hear how that sounds?

When you put it like that, it’s not ideal.

Not ideal?

I’m trying to be honest.

Try harder.

I exhale slowly. He’s still there—stubborn, impossible, entirely himself—and something in me settles even as every message lands like a blow.

I won’t force you to do anything.

I’ll leave if you tell me to. But I need to see you. I need to talk to you properly.

Where are you taking me?

Somewhere we can talk.

That is not an answer.

And I’m also worried about spending another evening somewhere with you while you act emotionally constipated and refuse to explain yourself.

I will explain myself

You promise?

Yes, I promise.

Fine, give me ten minutes.

My breath catches. Before I can respond, another message follows.

If you say one annoying thing, you’ll never see me again.

If you take me somewhere disappointing, I’ll make your life unbearable. And if you call me a child ever again, I’ll make sure your mother has to identify your body through dental records.

I stare at the screen and smile despite myself. Yes, this is the version of him I prefer. My stubborn spitfire.

Noted.

His response is a single middle-finger emoji. Then the typing indicator vanishes.

I set the phone down on the passenger seat and look toward the hotel entrance, heartbeat suddenly too loud in the quiet car.

Nine minutes later, the hotel doors sweep open, spilling warm light onto the pavement, and then there he is, walking toward my car with his hands shoved into the pockets of baggy jeans and an expression that suggests he is doing me a personal favor by not setting my car on fire.