I Think I Like You

I didn’t mean to fall for her.

That’s not how things are supposed to work when you’re thirty, burned out from dating apps, and stuck in a job where management thinks pizza parties cure exhaustion. But there she was — just across the hall, red pen in hand, dissecting legal copy that made my eyes glaze over. Contracts, disclaimers — the kind of stuff meant to bore. Yet she gave it life. Maybe it was the way she leaned in, like the paper whispered secrets only she could hear.

Her name was Mia. The first time we spoke, she offered me a half-melted granola bar and said, “Sorry, it’s this or printer paper.”

I liked her instantly.

For a while, it was just casual hallway chats. Light, low-stakes. I found out she had a cat named Sushi, despised Zoom meetings, and played guitar when she couldn’t sleep. She deflected compliments with ease, but her laugh lingered longer than it should’ve.

Then came a rainy Tuesday.

My ride bailed, my phone was at 4%, and I stood in the drizzle trying to summon an Uber like it was a lifeline. That’s when Mia passed by, umbrella in hand.

“Need a lift?”

I hesitated. “If you don’t mind…”

She unlocked her car. “Don’t judge the passenger seat. It’s a disaster zone.”

It was. Fast food wrappers, a tote bag, rogue pens, and a lone sock. She tossed it all in the back and grinned. “There. Instant luxury.”

The ride was quiet — but not awkward. It felt safe. She didn’t fill the silence just to fill it, and for once, I didn’t feel the need to perform. Rain tapped the windows, her playlist hummed — soft, moody indie.

“You always this nice to stranded coworkers?” I asked.

She smirked. “Only the ones on the verge of a meltdown over Uber surge pricing.”

I laughed — and something inside unlatched.

She dropped me off with a breezy “See you tomorrow.” I stood in the doorway longer than necessary, watching her tail lights fade through the rain.

That night, I texted her:

Me: Thanks again for the ride. You saved me from an actual breakdown.

Mia: Happy to be your emotional rescue vehicle.

Me: Might need you again. My soul’s on a waitlist for recovery.

Mia: Lol. I charge in granola bars now.

It was something.

Over the next few weeks, those rides turned into coffee runs. Coffee turned into walks at lunch. I learned her order (black with oat, no sugar — “I like my coffee judgmental”) and her trick for escaping meetings (“Fake a call. Walk briskly. Don’t look back”).

The truth crept up quietly: I didn’t just like her. I liked her. I thought about her too often. Wondered what it’d be like to kiss her. To wake up beside her. To make her laugh until she couldn’t breathe.

I knew the risks. We worked together. It could get messy.

But feelings don’t care about timing. They just ask if you’re brave enough.

One Thursday night, after another long day and late ride home, I said it. No buildup, no cushion.

“I think I like you.”

She turned off the engine and looked at me — like I was both a question and the answer.

“I kind of figured,” she said.

I swallowed. “And…?”

Her smile was different this time — soft, slow, real.

“I like you too.”

The words were gentle, but they hit hard. I’d braced for the polite letdown. Instead, I got this.

“But,” she added, “we work together. That doesn’t freak you out?”

“A little,” I admitted. “But not telling you? That scared me more.”

She nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’m in. Let’s do this. Carefully. But yeah… I want to.”

I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath for months.

We didn’t make a thing of it at work. Didn’t need to. Outside those walls, we were just us. Weekend coffee runs. Long texts. Walks that turned into hours. She steadied me when I spiraled, cracked jokes when I burned out, and challenged me when I needed grounding.

We made space for each other. She gave me playlists for sleepless nights. I brought her flowers just for surviving Monday. It was slow, intentional — real. No games. No panic.

One night, a few months in, I was lying on her couch, head in her lap, her fingers in my hair.

“You ever think about where this is going?” she asked.

“Sometimes,” I said. “You worried?”

“No. Just surprised. In a good way.”

“I still like you,” I said. “Even more than when I said it in the car.”

She kissed my forehead. “Same.”

No dramatic ending here. No twist. Just two people who found each other when they weren’t looking — and said the thing out loud.

And sometimes, that’s enough.