Chapter 2 A Love Worth Fighting For

Mitchell never believed in love at first sight. Infatuation, yes. Attraction, of course. But love? Love was something that built itself slowly, brick by brick, over time. And yet, as he sat across from Michael at a dimly lit Italian café two nights after they met, he felt something he couldn't name. Something terrifying.

Michael had chosen the place, a small family-owned restaurant tucked between bookstores and antique shops. It was the kind of spot Mitchell would have never found on his own, and yet it felt strangely familiar-comfortable, like the start of something real.

"I take it you're a fan of Italian?" Mitchell asked, watching as Michael twirled a fork in his hand absentmindedly.

"I take it you don't trust a man who picks a restaurant without consulting you first?" Michael countered with a smirk.

Mitchell laughed. "I trust good food. We'll see if this qualifies."

Michael's confidence never wavered. "You'll love it. And if you don't, I'll make it up to you."

"Oh? How?"

"A second date."

Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "A little presumptuous, aren't we?"

"Not presumptuous. Just optimistic."

There was something about Michael's energy that was impossible to resist. He was easy in his own skin, the kind of person who made the world seem less overwhelming just by existing in it. As the evening unfolded, Mitchell found himself lowering his guard in a way he hadn't in years.

They talked between bites of homemade pasta and glasses of red wine, their conversation weaving between deep and playful. Michael spoke about music the way people talked about soulmates-like it was an inseparable part of him.

"I started playing the piano when I was five," he said, his fingers mimicking the motion of pressing keys against the table. "I was terrible at first. My mom used to make me practice for hours, and I hated it. But then one day, I played something without thinking, and it just... made sense. It was like breathing."

Mitchell watched him, entranced. "And now?"

Michael smiled. "Now, I can't go a day without it. Music is the only thing that's never left me."

Mitchell didn't ask what that meant. He could hear the weight in Michael's voice, the hint of something unspoken.

"So, what about you?" Michael asked, shifting the conversation. "You work in publishing, but what do you really want?"

Mitchell hesitated. "I want to write."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because wanting something doesn't mean you get to have it."

Michael tilted his head. "That's a terrible excuse."

"It's reality."

"No," Michael countered gently. "Reality is the story we tell ourselves. If you want to write, then write."

It was such a simple statement, and yet it sent something sharp through Mitchell's chest. No one had ever said it quite like that before, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

They left the restaurant hours later, the city alive around them. A cool breeze curled between them as they walked side by side, their hands just barely brushing.

"So, was the food good enough?" Michael asked.

Mitchell smiled. "I'll admit, it was impressive."

"Good. Then that means I get a second date."

Mitchell shook his head but didn't argue. He didn't want to.

And when Michael reached for his hand, fingers lacing together with ease, Mitchell let him.

He was starting to believe that maybe, just maybe, some things were worth the risk.