We stopped hiding on Tuesday.
Not with some grand announcement or dramatic social media post. Just stopped pretending we were strangers who happened to work together.
Chase picked me up for the committee meeting instead of meeting me there. Showed up at my hotel at 5:45 with coffee and that half-smirk that made my stomach flip. Parked right in front where anyone looking out their window could see me climb into his truck.
"Morning," he said, handing me the coffee.
"It's evening."
"You know what I meant."
We drove downtown with his hand on my thigh like it belonged there. No discussion. No asking permission. Just his palm warm against my jeans while NPR droned about infrastructure bills and I tried not to smile like an idiot.
At the meeting, he sat next to me instead of across. Our shoulders touched. He passed me notes about Marcus's terrible presentation skills. Jasmine raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
After, we walked downtown to grab dinner. His hand found mine on the sidewalk. Just slid into place like we'd been doing this for years instead of days.
People noticed. Of course they noticed.
Mrs. Keller from the hardware store did a double-take. That group of moms outside the coffee shop stopped mid-conversation to stare. A car slowed down at the intersection like the driver needed photographic evidence.
Let them look.
The next day, Chase posted a photo on Instagram. Us bent over blueprints at his kitchen table. My hair was in a messy bun. His reading glasses were crooked. We were both pointing at something on the paper, clearly mid-argument about structural integrity or aesthetic choices or whatever architects fought about.
The caption was simple: "Good collaboration requires different perspectives."
Professional. Innocent. Except for the way his hand was resting on my lower back. The way I was leaning into him like gravity pulled me that direction.
It got ninety-seven likes in two hours. Comments ranged from supportive to suspicious to openly hostile.
"So happy for you both!"
"Is this the campaign project?"
"Interesting timing after the engagement ended."
"Some people never learn."
I didn't read past the first page. Just watched the number tick up and wondered how many people were screenshot-ing it for their group chats.
Amber saw it. Obviously. Her Instagram story went up an hour later. Photo of her and Miles at some charity event, her smile sharp as knives, caption reading: Grateful for people who grow forward, not backward ✨
Miles looked uncomfortable in the photo. Smile forced. Eyes tired. Like he was being held hostage by his own choices.
At Thursday's meeting, he barely spoke. Just sat there picking at his coffee lid while Marcus presented voter data. When Chase's hand brushed mine reaching for the same pen, Miles stared at the wall like it was suddenly fascinating.
"You okay?" Jasmine asked him after.
"Fine. Just tired."
But he wasn't fine. He was watching the implosion of a narrative he thought he understood. Where he was the hero who moved on and I was the mess who couldn't.
Except now I was the one who looked happy. And he was the one at charity events with Amber's smile cutting into his shoulder.
My mother stopped calling entirely.
No texts. No voicemails. No passive-aggressive articles sent via email about "healthy relationship patterns" or "recognizing self-sabotage."
Just silence. I should have been relieved. Should have celebrated the lack of judgment and unsolicited advice. Instead, it felt like abandonment wearing a polite mask.
One night, I was lying in Chase's bed staring at the ceiling while he traced lazy patterns on my shoulder. The room was dark except for the streetlight bleeding through the curtains. His apartment was quiet in that 2 AM way where the world felt smaller.
"Why are you still here?" I asked.
"What?"
"In this town. You could design buildings anywhere. Cities that need architects. Places that don't know every embarrassing thing you did in high school." I turned to look at him. "So why stay?"
He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that I thought he wasn't going to answer.
Then: "After you left, I convinced myself staying meant something. Like I was being responsible. Taking care of my mom. Building a career." His hand stilled on my shoulder. "But really?"
He traced my collarbone. Slow. Deliberate. Like he was memorizing the architecture of my bones.
"I was punishing myself for not being enough to make you stay."
My throat tightened. "You were enough. I was scared."
"I know." His voice was quiet. Raw. "Doesn't make it easier."
The words hung in the dark between us. Five years of almost and maybe and what if finally getting acknowledged.
"I think about it sometimes," he continued. "What would've happened if I'd asked you to stay. If I'd told you I loved you instead of pretending I was fine with you leaving."
"I wouldn't have stayed."
"I know."
"But I would've thought about it. Every day for five years."
He pulled me closer. Buried his face in my hair. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
We lay there in the quiet while the streetlight painted shadows across his ceiling. His heartbeat was steady under my palm. Mine was trying to match its rhythm.
"I'm leaving again," I said eventually. "When the campaign ends."
"I know."
"So what are we doing?"
"I don't know." His hand found mine. Laced our fingers together. "But I'd rather have this for two months than spend another five years wondering."
My chest ached. Not with sadness. With something bigger. Something that felt like hope and grief had a baby and named it honesty.
"Me too."
He kissed the top of my head. "Then let's stop worrying about the ending and just be here."
"That's surprisingly mature."
"Don't get used to it."
I smiled against his chest. Closed my eyes. Let myself exist in this moment without cataloging all the ways it might fall apart.
Outside, the town was probably still talking. Amber was probably planning her next move. My mother was probably adding this to her list of my failures.
But in here, in the dark, with Chase's heartbeat steady against my ear, none of that mattered.
Just this. Just now. Just us figuring out how to be honest about what we wanted before the clock ran out.