Chapter 3 The Invitation

AVA

By midweek, I was almost convinced the note had been a one-time thing. A fluke. A strange little spark in the static of campus life.

Maybe I'd read too much into it. Maybe Nathan was just being polite.

But then, during my Thursday lunch break, my phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

> I hope this isn't too forward.

But there's an art exhibit on Friday.

Something tells me you'd enjoy it.

Let me know if you'd like to go. – Nathan

My fork froze halfway to my mouth.

I blinked. Twice.

It was him. And he'd texted me. He had my number - probably from that chaotic orientation club list where everyone scrawled names and digits like it was a timed test. I barely remembered signing it.

But still.

He had it. And he used it like this?

Not a "hey what's up?"

Not a lazy "wanna hang out?"

But a quiet, thoughtful invitation. Considered. Respectful. A little old-fashioned.

And somehow... utterly disarming.

Across the table, Zoe peered at my phone screen and let out a squeal so loud the guy two seats over choked on his soda.

"Girl, he is not texting. He is courting. Do you understand how rare this is? What is this, 18th-century England? We love a slow-burn romance king!"

"I haven't even replied yet," I muttered, thumb hovering uncertainly over the keyboard.

I typed:

> Sure, I'd love to.

Then deleted it.

Tried again:

> What time?

Deleted that too.

Eventually, I settled on:

> What makes you think I'd enjoy it?

His reply came faster than I expected:

> Because when you talk about things you love, your voice softens.

Like you're protecting them.

I want to see that again.

My heart actually dropped into my stomach.

I stared at the screen, cheeks warming, fingers trembling just slightly. It wasn't just sweet. It was... observant. Like he had memorized the exact way my voice shifted when I talked about books, or writing, or even that one indie band I thought no one else knew.

It felt like a compliment wrapped in understanding.

That night, I couldn't focus. Not on my assignment. Not on my playlist. Not even on Zoe's detailed rant about her terrible philosophy TA. All I could think about was him.

And what it would be like to see him again.

Not across the quad.

Not in passing.

But on purpose.

Friday Evening

The sun was dipping behind the trees as I stood outside my apartment, trying to breathe normally. When I heard the low, smooth purr of an engine around the corner, my breath caught.

A sleek, dark sedan slowed to a stop.

Then the driver's side door opened, and Nathan stepped out.

I think my lungs stuttered.

He was wearing a charcoal jacket over a soft grey tee, jeans that somehow managed to look casual and sharp at the same time, and black sneakers. Effortless. But not careless.

"You look... warm," I blurted.

He blinked. Then laughed - that low, soft kind of laugh that sinks into your bones.

"Well, that's better than being cold," he replied.

"Oh my God," I groaned, covering my face. "Ignore me. I have no filter when I'm nervous."

He didn't tease. Just opened the car door with that same steady calm he always seemed to carry. "Good to know," he said as I slid into the passenger seat. "Because I think nervous Ava might be my favorite."

I didn't know whether to laugh or hide.

The Gallery

The art exhibit was tucked into a quiet little gallery downtown, all soft lighting and hushed conversations. A gentle piano melody drifted through the air, elegant and low, blending with the footsteps of the few people inside.

Nathan didn't rush me.

He let me linger where I wanted, sometimes beside me, sometimes a few steps back. Always close. Never pressing.

We paused at a painting - a girl on a swing, suspended mid-air, everything rendered in shades of blue and gray.

"What do you see in this one?" he asked, tilting his head.

"Loneliness," I murmured. "But not sadness. More like... waiting. She's swinging, but not going anywhere."

Nathan looked from the painting to me. "You notice the kind of silence most people overlook."

I wasn't prepared for how good that made me feel. Like he saw the way my mind worked - not just what I said, but how I saw the world.

We talked. About little things. Big things. Childhood dreams. Books that wrecked us. Songs we only listened to when we were alone.

He didn't speak often, but when he did, it mattered.

He asked questions like he meant them. Listened like he was collecting pieces of me.

And for once, I didn't feel like I had to fill every silence. They settled between us gently, like something living.

Outside the Gallery

When we stepped out into the cool night air, the wind kissed my bare arms, and I started to shiver.

Without a word, Nathan slipped off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders.

"You didn't have to-"

"I know," he said, hands back in his pockets. "But I wanted to."

I stared up at him, heartbeat fluttering.

"Why me?" I asked, the words slipping out before I could catch them. "You don't even know me."

He didn't look away.

"I'd like to," he said. "And I'd rather take my time getting it right... than rush into something shallow."

There was no grand flourish in his voice. No theatrics.

Just quiet honesty. The kind that felt heavier than it sounded.

I looked away, overwhelmed by the sudden tightness in my chest. I wasn't used to being seen like this. Not really.

Not chosen for being pretty.

Or convenient.

Or just... there.

But chosen because I was me.

That night, when I walked back into my apartment with his jacket still warm around my shoulders, I didn't say much to Zoe.

Just smiled softly and whispered, "I think I'm in trouble."

And I meant it.

Not butterflies.

Roots.

And they were starting to grow.