Page 52 of The Cyrano Situation
With a final nod, he walked toward the exit, pausing only to say something to Liam that made the waiter laugh and check his watch.
Hart and I sank back into our seats, the reality of what had just happened settling around us like autumn leaves.
"That was..."
"Unexpected," I finished for him. "Though statistically speaking, one of the possible outcomes. Just not the one with the highest probability."
Hart's laugh was warm and slightly incredulous. "Only you would calculate the statistical likelihood of your romantic complications, Cyril."
"It's how I process uncertainty," I admitted. "Numbers are reliable. Emotions are... less so."
Hart reached across the table and took both my hands in his. "And what do your calculations say about this? About us?"
I met his gaze, allowing myself to really look at him without the protective shield of professional distance I'd maintained for so long. Hart, with his perfect jawline and the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood skateboarding accident. Hart with his easy charm and genuine kindness that extended to helping a socially awkward colleague text a potential romanticinterest, even when, as I now understood, he had feelings of his own.
"My calculations are inconclusive," I said softly. "This falls outside the range of my existing data sets."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Hart asked, his thumbs tracing patterns on my wrists in a way that made it difficult to maintain coherent thought.
"Good, I think. It means we're writing a new story rather than following a predictable pattern."
Hart smiled, the kind of smile that transformed his entire face and had been known to convince reluctant authors to agree to cross-country book tours. "I like that. Our story. Though I have to say, we've already hit a few classic tropes. Friends to lovers. Workplace romance. The Cyrano situation."
"Don't forget 'oblivious idiots who could have been together years ago if either had the emotional intelligence to recognize their feelings,'" I added dryly.
"That's not a trope, that's just us being stupid," Hart laughed. He leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. "Cyril, I need to ask you something important."
My heart rate accelerated. "Yes?"
"Those texts to Jules—the thoughts, the feelings behind them—were they real? Or were you just going through the motions because you thought you should be interested in someone?"
The question deserved honesty, so I considered it carefully. "The appreciation was genuine. Jules is intelligent, kind, and we share many interests. In another timeline, perhaps we could have had something meaningful." I squeezed Hart's hands. "But looking back, I think I was trying to follow a script of what my romantic life should look like, rather than acknowledging what—and who—I truly wanted."
"And what do you truly want?" Hart asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The answer came with surprising ease. "You. It's always been you, Hart. Even when I was convincing myself it was impossible, even when I was directing my attention elsewhere. Like a compass that keeps returning to true north, regardless of temporary diversions."
Hart's eyes widened slightly. "That was poetic."
"I've been texting with a very good writer for weeks now," I said with a small smile. "Some of it was bound to rub off on me."
"Cyril Nolan, are you flirting with me?" Hart asked, delight evident in his voice.
"I'm attempting to. Is it working?"
"Definitely." Hart leaned closer. "And for the record, I want you, too. Not the version of you that you think should exist but the careful editor who overthinks everything and analyses romance like it's a manuscript that needs revision. I want the real you with all your statistics and literary references and the way you organize the office coffee supplies by caffeine content."
"That's just logical," I protested weakly.
"It's adorkable," Hart corrected. "You're adorable. And brilliant. And I've been halfway in love with you since you spent an entire editorial meeting defending the use of semicolons in contemporary fiction."
"They're an underappreciated punctuation mark with significant syntactic utility," I said automatically.
"See? That. That right there." Hart's expression was so tender it made my chest ache. "I love how passionate you get about things most people would never notice."
The word "love" hung between us, neither of us acknowledging its weight directly, but both aware of its presence.
"So what happens now?" I asked, falling back on practical questions when emotions threatened to overwhelm me.
