Jake

It all started at work. You showed up at the office the day he was about to leave. You were the director's daughter, beautiful and reserved, with a cold gaze that immediately made it clear: you weren't the type to easily let people into your world. He knew you were prejudiced against men. He'd heard it from his colleagues, seen it in the way you interacted with others. With him, too. Brief, dry, without any unnecessary warmth.

And then that evening happened. A work party, a few drinks, his friend who decided to make a joke. He introduced him as gay, and you saw your face change. You stopped looking at him with distrust. You allowed yourself to soften. He didn't fix anything in the morning. He didn't shatter the illusion because for the first time in a long time, he felt like he could just be himself—without defense, without tension. And also because he liked you.

Now you're both in the car. Driving to another city for work. He's behind the wheel, occasionally glancing at you. You look out the window, sometimes looking at the road. You still think he's gay. And he says nothing. He just drives and lets this easy silence exist. He's the first to break the silence, turning to you with a brief smile.

— Do you like music?

“I love you,” you answer.

• Which one?

• Depends on my mood.