Their first official date wasn’t slick.
It was soup.
“Really?” Raj said, peering over the top of her monitor the next morning as she tried to focus on oversight board minutes and not on the ghost of Jake’s mouth. “Soup?”
She glared at him.
“I didn’t say anything,” she said.
“You didn’t have to,” he said. “Your face did that thing. The one where you pretend you’re thinking about land-use statutes but actually you’re replaying something in your head in slow-motion.”
“I hate that you’re observant,” she muttered.
He hopped up to sit on the edge of her desk.
“I am your official terrible influence,” he said. “It’s my job to pry. So. You and Mr. Grid. What’s the plan?”
She hesitated.
Then, to her own surprise, she told him.
“Soup,” he said when she finished. “At your mom’s. That… is not where I thought this arc was going.”
“It’s not…” She rubbed her forehead. “He texted my mom about the radiator again. She said, ‘Tell him to come for dinner.’ I said, ‘He’s busy saving the city.’ She said, ‘He can save it after he eats.’”
Raj wheezed.
“I love her,” he said. “Has she considered running for mayor?”
“She already runs South Side,” Olivia said. “Why come down in the world?”
“So you’re taking him,” Raj said. “Into the lioness’s den.”
“Apparently,” she said. “Tomorrow.”
He sobered a little.
“You okay with that?” he asked. “That’s… big.”
She chewed her lower lip.
“If we’re doing this,” she said, “he’s not just dating me. He’s… dating my mother. My uncle. My entire neighborhood. They all… have opinions.”
Raj nodded.
“And if he runs?” he asked.
“I’ll kill him,” she said. “Slowly. With words.”
He smiled, but there was concern in it.
“You’re sure,” he said.
She thought about Jake’s face in the tunnel. The way he’d said, *I want to watch you win awards.*
The way her body had remembered him in an instant.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m… sure enough to… try.”
He hopped down.
“Okay,” he said. “For the record? I think you’re terrifying. And he probably deserves whatever your mom’s going to say to him about missing your brother’s hearing in 2013.”
She winced.
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “She still brings that up.”
“As she should,” Raj said. “It’s the law.”
***
The next evening, as she stood in her childhood kitchen with her hands in a sink full of soapy water, she wondered if she’d made a terrible mistake.
“You invited him,” her mother said, pulling tortillas out of a warming drawer. “You don’t get to back out now.”
“I could fake food poisoning,” Olivia said. “Or a sudden investigative breakthrough.”
Her mother snorted.
“He will come anyway,” she said. “Probably with a laptop.”
“He better not,” Olivia muttered.
The small apartment smelled like cumin and garlic and onions. A pot burbled on the stove, rich with chicken and vegetables. The table was already covered—rice, beans, salsa, a flan sweating slightly in its pan.
“Ma,” Olivia said, watching her bustle between stove and table. “Do not interrogate him.”
Her mother arched a brow.
“I am his elder,” she said. “It is my sacred duty.”
“Try to keep the sacred duty under ten minutes,” Olivia said.
“This is why I didn’t tell you about your father’s job until after he left,” her mother muttered. “You would have ruined my timing.”
A knock—two quick, one slow—sounded at the door.
Olivia’s heart thudded.
Her mother gave her a pointed look.
“Go,” she said.
Olivia wiped her hands on a dish towel, walked the short hallway, and opened the door.
Jake stood there in a navy sweater and dark jeans, a paper bag in his hand, hair damp like he’d showered in a rush.
“Hey,” he said, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
Her chest did that stupid flutter again.
“Hey,” she said. “You made it.”
“Your mother told me if I was late, she’d feed my share to Marco,” he said. “I’m more afraid of your brother than of subway delays.”
“That’s… fair,” she said.
He held up the bag.
“I brought… peace offerings,” he said. “Pan dulce. And… this.”
He pulled out a six-pack of fancy mineral water.
“It felt wrong to bring wine,” he said. “Given the number of Catholics likely to be present.”
She laughed.
“Good call,” she said. “Ma!”
Her mother appeared in the hallway, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Mira,” she said, smiling in that way that was both welcoming and assessing. “He remembers how to knock.”
“Señora Martinez,” Jake said, ducking his head slightly. “Thank you for having me.”
“Mm,” she said, taking in the bag. “You bring pan. You may enter.”
He handed it over, stepping inside, careful not to track snow from his boots onto the faded rug.
“Smells amazing,” he said, inhaling.
“You hungry?” her mother asked.
“Always,” he said. “Especially when your cooking is involved.”
She sniffed, flattered despite herself.
“We see if you say that after,” she said. “Sit. Olivia, help me with the plates.”
He hovered awkwardly near the doorway until Marco’s voice boomed from the living room.
“Yo! Look who it is,” Marco said, appearing with a grin, T-shirt stretched over his broad chest. “If it isn’t Mr. Smart City himself.”
“Hey,” Jake said, relief flickering. “Marco.”
They did the half-hug, half-shoulder-clap thing men who grew up together and hadn’t seen each other in a while defaulted to.
“How’s the ladder situation?” Jake asked. “You staying on the ground yet?”
Marco rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s a comedian,” he said. “Arm’s fine. Doctor says I’m not allowed to be a superhero for a while.”
“Good,” Jake said. “We’ve got enough of those.”
“Speak for yourself,” Marco said. “I saw you on TV yelling at that old white dude. You looked like you were about to vaporize him with your mind.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Olivia muttered, setting down forks.
Her mother clucked her tongue.
“Everyone sit,” she ordered. “Before the rice gets cold.”
They gathered around the small table—her mother at one end, Olivia at the other, Jake and Marco on either side.
For a few minutes, it was all logistics.
“Pass the salsa.” “Careful, that pan is hot.” “Marco, move your elbow before you knock over the beans.”
Then, as the first course of soup went around, her mother leaned her forearms on the table and fixed Jake with a look.
“So,” she said. “You and my daughter.”
Olivia’s spoon froze halfway to her mouth.
“Ma,” she hissed.
“What?” her mother said. “We are all thinking it. Better to say it before the second plate.”
Jake set his spoon down, inhaled.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Me and your daughter.”
“You hurt her,” her mother said plainly. “Before.”
He didn’t flinch.
“Yes,” he said.
“You going to do that again?” she asked.
Olivia wanted to crawl under the table.
Jake met her mother’s gaze head-on.
“I’m going to try very hard not to,” he said. “I can’t promise I won’t… screw up. I’m good at that. But I can promise I’ll listen when she says, ‘This hurts.’ I didn’t before. That’s… on me.”
Her mother studied him for a long moment.
“What about when your company hurts her?” she asked. “When she writes something and the computers send her hate?”
“Ma,” Olivia protested.
Jake’s jaw clenched.
“Then that’s on me too,” he said. “If anything I do makes her life harder, I… want to know. I can’t control… everything. But I can… be there. And not… hide behind PR.”
“Be there,” her mother repeated. “You weren’t at Marco’s hearing.”
Marco winced.
Jake did too.
“I know,” he said, voice low. “I… apologized. Not well enough. I fucked that up. I can’t… redo that day. I can only… show up now. When he falls off ladders. When Olivia’s uncle needs a ride to physio. When you text me about the heat.”
Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “You say a lot of words,” she said. “We will see if they mean anything.”
He nodded.
“Fair,” he said.
She sat back.
“You wash the dishes tonight,” she said. “Then we will be one step closer.”
He blinked.
Then smiled, slow.
“I’d be honored,” he said.
Olivia nearly choked on her soup.
“Ma,” she spluttered. “You can’t make the billionaire do dishes.”
“Why not?” her mother said. “His hands still work, no?”
Marco cackled.
“I want a picture of this,” he said. “For when he’s on the cover of some magazine again. ‘Local Hero Does Dishes.’”
Heat climbed Jake’s neck, but there was something like… relief in his expression.
“Deal,” he said.
After the soup, the main course went around.
Her mother kept the conversation moving, steering away from politics and code.
She asked about Jake’s brother, about his mother, about whether he’d been eating properly. When he admitted he’d sometimes forgotten lunch on long days, she clucked disapprovingly.
“You’re not twenty,” she said. “You cannot live like a raccoon anymore.”
“I’ll work on it,” he said, mouth quirked.
At one point, she brought out an old photo album.
Olivia groaned.
Jake leaned in, eyes lighting at the sight of his younger self in faded prints—skinny, hair too long, T-shirt three sizes too big.
“Oh God,” he said, thumbing a photo of himself, Olivia, and Marco on the community center steps. “Look at my sneakers. I can’t believe you let me out of the house in these.”
“You wouldn’t listen,” her mother said. “You said, ‘They still have soles.’”
“They did,” he protested.
“Barely,” she said.
Olivia watched him.
The way his shoulders loosened as he flipped through the album. The way laughter—real, unforced—bubbled out of him when her mother told some old story about him trying to “fix” the center’s ancient computer and knocking out the power in half the building.
“You were always dangerous with wires,” her mother said.
“Some things never change,” he admitted.
After flan—Jake inhaled two slices and complimented it so effusively her mother pretended not to preen—he stood, rolled up his sleeves, and carried dishes to the sink.
Marco hovered, phone out, smirking.
“Do not,” Olivia said, pointing a fork at him.
“What?” he said innocently. “This is history.”
Jake laughed.
“It’s okay,” he said. “If it gets me points with your mom, I’ll let the internet see me scrub a pan.”
“Remember that,” Marco said. “When I send you the link.”
In the kitchen, with her mother directing traffic, Jake washed. Olivia dried. Water splashed, plates clinked. Her mother fussed about him getting his sweater wet.
“You don’t use a dishwasher in your fancy place?” she asked.
“I do,” he said. “But it’s less judgmental than you are.”
She snorted. “Then you need better dishwashers,” she said.
Later, standing at the door, coat on, paper bag of leftover flan in hand, Jake looked… content.
Not wowed. Not dazzled.
Settled. In a way she’d rarely seen.
“Thank you,” he said to her mother in Spanish. “For dinner. And… for not throwing me out the window.”
Her mother smiled, small.
“You be good to her,” she said. “Or I will throw you on the tracks. Your little sensors will not save you.”
He laughed.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
In the hallway, as the door clicked shut behind them, he leaned back against the wall, exhaling.
“Well,” he said. “That was… less painful than anticipated.”
“She likes you,” Olivia said. “In her way.”
“She made me scrub the pot,” he said. “That’s… love.”
Olivia smiled.
“Yeah,” she said. “It is.”
He shifted closer.
“You?” he asked.
“Me what?” she said.
“You… like me?” he said lightly. “In your way?”
She rolled her eyes, but her heart stuttered.
“Don’t fish,” she said.
He grinned.
“Come over,” he said suddenly.
Her breath caught.
“Jake,” she said.
“No pressure,” he said quickly. “Just… I’m… full of your mother’s cooking and your brother’s teasing. My apartment feels… very quiet right now.”
She hesitated.
It was late. She would be tired tomorrow.
Her mother would guess.
Everyone would.
“You know what?” she heard herself say. “Okay.”
His eyes widened.
“Okay?” he echoed.
“Okay,” she said. “But I’m not… promising anything beyond… couch time and maybe raiding your snack cabinet.”
He smiled, almost reverent.
“I will give you all the snacks,” he said.
“Don’t overplay your hand,” she muttered.
On the ride to his place—Lyft, because neither of them had the patience for the weekend subway schedule—they sat with their thighs just barely touching. Every bump in the road pressed them together.
Her body hummed.
In the elevator up to his penthouse, nerves spiked.
It was the first time she’d been here *like this*.
As… not a reporter.
As a woman going home with a man she wanted.
The doors opened onto the wide, open space that was his living room—high ceilings, massive windows, city spread out beyond.
It looked… softer than she remembered.
A stack of folded laundry sat on one end of the couch. A pair of sneakers was kicked off near the door. An empty mug with a faint ring of coffee residue perched on the kitchen counter.
“Sorry,” he said, shrugging off his coat. “It’s… not staged.”
“I’d be more concerned if it was,” she said.
She put her coat on the back of a chair, dropped her bag by the couch.
For a second, they stood there.
The question hung between them.
“What do you… want to do?” he asked.
She could say, *Watch something.* *Talk.* *Go home.*
Instead, she stepped into his space.
Slid her hands up his chest, over the soft knit of his sweater.
His breath hitched.
“This,” she said.
He groaned.
Wrapped his arms around her.
Their mouths met with no pretense now.
Heat surged.
He kissed her like he’d been holding himself back for months.
Maybe years.
Her back hit the kitchen island as he guided her gently, his body pressing into hers.
The hard plane of his chest against her soft layers. The solid warmth of his thigh sliding between hers.
She gasped into his mouth.
He broke away, eyes dark, chest heaving.
“We can… stop,” he said, voice strained. “Any time.”
She searched his face.
Saw desire, yes. But also… restraint.
Trembling, sure, but there.
Her heart clenched.
“I know,” she said. “I’ll tell you. If I… need to.”
He nodded once.
Slowly, deliberately, he lifted her onto the edge of the island, hands firm on her hips.
She wrapped her legs around him.
His breath stuttered.
“Fuck,” he murmured.
She laughed, breathless.
“Technical term?” she teased, voice husky.
He smiled against her neck, mouth finding the spot just below her ear that made her shiver.
“Very technical,” he said.
His hands slid under the hem of her sweater, fingers splaying over the warm skin at her waist.
She sucked in a breath.
Her own hands moved of their own accord—up under his shirt, palms meeting hot skin and hard muscle.
He shuddered.
“Liv,” he said, voice breaking.
She kissed him again.
Long and deep and greedy.
The world narrowed.
There was nothing but his mouth, his hands, the press of his body, the way every nerve in her lit up in a cascade.
Time tilted.
A phone buzzed somewhere. Distant. Unimportant.
He tore his mouth from hers, sucked in a breath like he’d been underwater.
“Wait,” he said, voice raw. “Your… phone.”
She blinked, dazed.
“Who cares,” she said, reaching for him again.
He caught her wrists gently.
“Your mom,” he said. “You told her you might be home late. She’ll… worry.”
Reality crashed back.
She cursed softly.
“Of course,” she muttered. “Guilt by ringtone.”
He smiled, fond.
“Go check,” he said. “I’ll… get us water. Or… something stronger.”
She slid off the island on shaky legs, fumbled for her bag.
Her phone flashed *Ma*.
She answered, trying to sound less like she’d just been making out against a very expensive countertop.
“Hey,” she said. “Everything okay?”
“Just checking you’re not dead in a ditch,” her mother said. “Or on the tracks.”
“Alive,” Olivia said. “Upright. Not on tracks.”
“Good,” her mother said. “Eat something before you sleep. The soup has rice. It will soak up the day.”
“I will,” Olivia lied. “Night, Ma.”
She hung up, leaned her forehead briefly against the cabinet.
When she turned, Jake was watching her from the other side of the island, two glasses of water in hand, pupils still blown, hair mussed.
He handed her a glass.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “She just… wanted to make sure I wasn’t… anywhere near a train.”
“Smart woman,” he said.
She took a sip.
The coolness grounded her.
He set his own glass down.
“Come here,” he said softly.
She did.
This time, when he kissed her, it was slower.
Less urgency.
More… savoring.
He walked her backward toward the couch, mouth never leaving hers.
When the back of her knees hit the cushion, he pulled away, just enough to search her face.
“Stay,” he said. “Tonight. We don’t have to… do… everything. We can… sleep. Together.”
Her heart thudded.
He said the last word like it tasted both sweet and scary.
She thought of his bed, of waking up with him, of morning light on his skin.
She thought of what it would mean. Of what they’d be unable to take back.
She thought of the grace period, officially over.
“Yes,” she said.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”
They ended up in his bedroom.
Eventually.
After another hour of kissing on the couch, of hands exploring under clothes and soft moans swallowed between their mouths.
When they finally tumbled onto the bed, breathless and laughing, he paused again.
“Olivia,” he said, brushing hair away from her face. “Tell me where the line is.”
She took his hand, guided it where she wanted.
“Here,” she said.
And then, for a while, there were no more words.
Just heat and skin and the heady, dizzying feeling of coming home to something she hadn’t let herself believe she’d ever have again.
Later, much later, when the city had quieted outside and his chest rose and fell steady under her cheek, she stared at the ceiling of his dark bedroom.
The crack there she didn’t know yet.
But she knew this:
She’d made a choice.
Not clean. Not risk-free.
But hers.
His arm tightened around her.
“You still awake?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” she whispered.
“Regrets?” he asked.
She considered.
“Too many clothes on the floor,” she said. “Trip hazard.”
He chuckled, chest vibrating under her.
“Seriously,” he said.
She pressed her lips to his skin.
“No,” she said. “Not tonight.”
He exhaled, long.
“Good,” he said.
Sleep pulled at her.
As she drifted, one last coherent thought threaded through the haze.
*So this is what it feels like,* she thought. *To build something new on old fault lines.*
Not stable, yet.
Not certain.
But real.
---