Our first date was at a crowded food market on a rainy afternoon, and he was already there when I arrived, standing with his hands in his pockets like he had been waiting without impatience. We ate, we talked, and several times his phone buzzed with messages that he answered quickly in clipped, technical language that did not feel like casual texting.
“What kind of security job is that?” I asked once.
“The kind that keeps things running,” he said with a small smile.
It was an answer, but not really.
I let it go.
That became a pattern.
Over the next months, we fell into something steady and quiet, built from small moments instead of grand declarations. He showed me parts of the city that felt lived in rather than curated, and he listened more than he spoke. He disappeared sometimes with short explanations, always calm, never dramatic.
“I have to go,” he would say, already reaching for his jacket.
“Work?” I would ask.
“Yeah.”
And then he would be gone.
At his apartment, I found medical textbooks stacked beside the couch, heavy and filled with notes.
“You read these?” I asked once, holding one up.
“I like understanding how things work,” he said.
“That is not a real answer.”