We'd been dating for six weeks, but our relationship existed almost entirely in the gaps between work, family obligations, and the occasional excuse to escape the city traffic.
One Saturday, we finally had a whole evening together.
We ordered food, watched a terrible thriller, and spent more time making fun of the dialogue than following the story.
When the film ended, neither of us moved.
He brushed a strand of hair away from my face and kissed me. I pulled him closer, and the kiss lasted long enough that we both forgot what we'd been talking about.
Later, we sat together under a blanket, talking about things we'd never discussed on our dates: family expectations, money, past relationships, and the fear of choosing the wrong person.
At around 2 AM, I asked him why he always left before it got too late.
He looked embarrassed.
“My parents think I'm at my friend's place when I stay out. I don't want to keep lying to them.”
I hadn't expected that answer. I thought he was avoiding intimacy, or that he didn't want to get too attached.
Instead, he was trying to work out how to date someone honestly while living in a home where every late night became a family investigation.
He stayed until morning that night, after we talked through the practicalities and made sure we were both comfortable with it.
When I woke up, he was in the kitchen trying to make tea.
It was terrible.
I drank it anyway.
I had expected the most memorable part of the night to be the kissing.
It was actually watching him burn the milk while insisting he knew what he was doing.
That was when I realised I was in trouble.