The First Actual Date
Once upon a time, Bumbly received a message that didn’t smell like pity. It was short, human, and dangerously normal: coffee on the terrace near the river, sometime this week.
Every day, he’d been practicing not getting excited—because excitement was expensive when it collapsed into silence. Still, his apartment felt different the moment he typed “Yes.” The charger hum seemed steadier. The air tasted less stale.
Until one day, he began the real pre-date ritual: not grooming or outfit-fussing, but logistics. Entrance widths. Pavement slopes. Table spacing. Weather forecasts. Not taxis this time—just a familiar route, close enough that the neighborhood itself felt like backup. He planned like a tactician because the world didn’t make room by default, even when the destination was only a few blocks away.
Because of that, he arrived early and chose a terrace table that didn’t require an apology. The café smelled like espresso and warm stone, sunlight catching on glassware and metal chairs. He parked easily, wheels aligned with the table leg like it had always been meant for him—because it had.
Because of that, when Esther arrived, the moment landed softly instead of sharply. She was a Sun Bear, compact and warm-toned, dark fur catching the light with a subtle copper sheen. She moved with an ease that didn’t scan the chair first, didn’t hesitate, didn’t recalibrate. She smiled like this wasn’t new territory.
They talked about music. About films. About small joys that made ordinary days tolerable. Esther mentioned, casually and without weight, that she’d dated people with muscular disease before—said the way someone mentioned having lived in another city. No curiosity spike. No careful phrasing. Just context, offered and then set aside.
So the medical script stayed closed.
Until finally, Lyra’s text buzzed Bumbly’s phone: breathe, enjoy this, and if she calls you brave I’m biting shoelaces.
Bumbly almost snorted coffee through his straw, laughter warming his face in a way he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.
Ever since then, he remembered that dates didn’t have to be a performance. Sometimes they were just two people sharing warmth on a familiar terrace—no taxis, no translating, no proving—while one friend quietly held the back line.