Her honest admission makes me smile. One of my favorite things about Emma is her ability to speak her mind freely and unabashedly. She’s quiet, sure, but also never holds back. If you ask her opinion on something, she’s always going to tell you the truth.

I adjust my position on the bed, wanting to give her ample space. “Permission to speak openly?”

She nods auspiciously, encouraging me along.

“Emma,” I start. “When we first started talking, I wasn’t interested in pointless conversation with someone I didn’t know. I figured we’d hash out the details of the event, go along our merry way, and call it a day. My plan didn’t work. I checked my phone constantly, becoming distracted at work. I hoped I would hear from you, smiling like a fucking tool bag every time you answered. Each morning I woke up excited to talk to you, and every night I was sad when we said goodbye, trying to find ways to prolong our conversation so I could squeeze out more time with you.

“Then I’d see you in person, unknowingly drawn to you as Emma, too. Every time I walk into work, a magnetic force draws me by your office. I never stop in, not wanting to interrupt you, but I always pass by, wondering what you’re doing on the opposite side of the wall. I kind of like that we built the foundation of our arrangement on anonymity. We have this… this structure of trust, happiness, humor, and attraction. Little pieces have grown into something sturdy. Something strong. Something worth working on.”

“So where do we go from here?” Emma asks.

That’s the million-dollar question.

I don’t have a fucking clue.

Does this mean we’re officially dating? Embarking on a non-exclusive friends-with-benefits track with no strings attached?

My stomach churns in disgust and my blood curdles at the thought of her spending time with another man. Bile rises in my throat as I picture myself with another woman, ignoring Emma’s texts while I get someone else off.

Nope.

Not interested in non-exclusive.

Leveling a breath and gathering whatever strands of courage I can find, I speak. “I like watching you eat an entire basket of chips and queso, then wash it down with six tacos and ask about dessert. I like making cookies with you and how you squeal when I throw chocolate chips at your face. I like falling asleep beside you, and I like it even more when I wake up with you nestled in my arms.”

Emma listens with a razor-sharp attentiveness. She’s a logical, pragmatic woman, and I know she’s assessing me for any fallacies I might be trying to spew. I have her undivided attention, and knowing she’s not laughing in my face spurs me on, eager to share more.