Soso and I quickly set into a routine. I take her to school every morning by bus. She’s excited that it’s not her normal school bus (I don’t live on any of their routes) and proudly shows me off to her friends and school teacher. I’ve met Ms Harris before. Josie planned for her absence after the birth meticulously and made sure Soso’s school knew she’d be staying with me for a few days.

While Soso is at school, I fulfil my work duties, and in the afternoon I take her to see her mom and the babies at the hospital. When Josie is discharged, we’re all relieved that Theo and Ezra are healthy and strong enough to go with her. I offer to keep Soso for a few more days so Josie and the boys can settle in at home. I don’t have to ask Soso; I know she is thrilled, and Josie is thankful for the support. She offers to take Soso for a night so I can go on my postponed date with Rashid, but I refuse.

I actually feel a bit nervous about our date. I know this seems like “one step forward, two steps back”, but after my botched attempt at flirting, including my awkward response to his compliment, I’m a little lost. I feel like I should apologise and explain. But wouldn’t that make it worse? Should I just ignore it? Go on like nothing happened? Be more careful? Or should I just charge in like a rhino in a china shop?

After my first batch of chores, I take a break and sit down with an apple and my phone. I opt for the middle ground, quite cowardly.

WD: “Morning, did you sleep well?”

There’s no immediate reply, so I finish my apple, and I’m about to head downstairs again to change some light bulbs in the hallway when I hear a buzzing.

RC: “Yes, you?”

It’s a bit short, and my honest reply would be, “Haven’t slept at all. Too busy fretting over some flirty comment you made”, which brings me back to my initial dilemma. Before I can think of a better answer, another text from Rashid pops up.

RC: “Sorry, I just got out of the shower”

WD: “Does that mean you’re naked?”

Apparently this is the moment subtlety puts on its coat and quietly leaves the chat. I’m a human disaster with a working phone and no sense of shame.

RC: “Nope”

RC: “Not anymore”

RC: “Sorry to disappoint”

I chuckle. I love how he matches my freak. It encourages me to ask my next question.

WD: “Are we still good for dinner?”

RC: “I sure hope so! Whenever you’re free”

WD: “Soso is staying with me for a few days”

RC: “Is she your new wingman?”

WD: “Only if you want to hear everything about Lavender LaViolette and Anna Banana”

RC: “Saving the Earth is our number one mission!”

I laugh. I can’t believe he knows the Rainbow Rangers.

WD: “Admit it, you just googled that”

RC: “Maybe” He adds a winking emoji.

RC: “Family comes first, Wendell. I can wait. No expiry date on your raincheck”

WD: “Are you sure?”

RC: “Yes. Very sure”

There’s this warm glow inside of me. I almost want to call it a familiar feeling now because it seems to happen a lot lately, especially when Rashid is involved. We’re good. I’ll see him again.

RC: “Can I call you tonight?”

I promise to text him after Soso’s asleep, and this is how we spend our week. We text during the day and video chat or call at night. I usually tell him about my day, and I learn I’m actually not his only “assessment”, but he’s working on a few cases. He can’t share details, but I assume one of them might involve some vampires at 1132 Royal Street.

We start to become more comfortable with each other, less tiptoeing, more teasing. The subject of my proposed recruitment never comes up again, so the nature of our meetings is actually not a question anymore. Even my doubtful ass must admit that there might be some genuine interest in my person, that’s not strictly professional, on Rashid’s side. I can’t explain why, but I won’t fight him if that’s what’s happening.

Especially in our texts, there’s some blatant flirting going on. We’ve officially lost all nuance and jumped straight to water-balloon warfare levels. We’re a bit more restrained in our calls. Somehow the face-to-face aspect is making us a bit more shy, but we use the time to get to know each other better, our likes and dislikes, and our views of the world.

I mention his profile picture, and he says it was taken on a holiday near the place where he grew up. He sends me a map of England and adds a circle to a place in the northeast. That’s where he grew up in a small village called Walkington near Hull in Yorkshire. He had a happy childhood, despite being the only brown kid in the neighbourhood. I’m fascinated and ask him a tonne of questions about England and his South Asian heritage. He’s content to answer them, especially the more generic ones, but he’s more deflective when it comes to his teenage years. I assume that’s when he discovered that he’s also the only gay kid around. It probably made him feel even more isolated.

I get it. My school was pretty diverse when it came to ethnic backgrounds – New Orleans is such a hotpot – but until I met Remy, I felt like the only kid who wasn’t only into superheroes but really into the male variety. I also understand that Rashid is not comfortable sharing everything about his private life with me. Of course, he knows a lot about me through my mysterious file (gosh, I wish I could read it, just to see what he knows), but I’m not ready to talk about most of my past life either.

When he mentions that his parents passed away – apparently his dad died when Rashid was still studying in Oxford and his mom a few years ago – I bring up Mom and how I’ll never stop missing her, even though I was really young when we lost her. He goes very quiet after that – it’s Friday night and we’re on the phone – and then he thanks me in an almost inaudible voice. Our upbringings might have been quite different, but we discover we have more things in common than you would think.

The turmoil that I noticed in him is still there, the attempt to keep things professional, but I get the feeling he slowly accepts defeat. It’s still a dance between outrageous flirting, tender moments and pulling back. But the current seems to lead us toward one destination, and instead of trying to stay afloat alone, avoiding drowning seems easier when we cling together. For now at least. We’ll see what the future holds for us.

On Sunday, the twins’ first birthday – they’re one week old now – I take Soso and Kitty back to my sister. We make Soso sit down in the living room, next to the twins, and tell her she’s a big sister now and big sisters take care of their baby brothers. Josie has her arm around me, gives me a squeeze and presses a kiss to my crown.

She grins knowingly when I tell her I won’t stay long. I meet Rashid that evening at Miss Green Bean’s Creole Kitchen, my absolute favourite. They’re 100% plant-based and offer Southern-inspired dishes, including vegan takes on classic Creole food like gumbo, po’boys, and jambalaya. I’m not overly strict with my vegan diet; I lived on the streets for too long to afford it. If you have the choice between eating something non-vegan or starving, it’s not really a question. So even today, when old Mrs Beauchamp offers me a chocolate cookie, I’ll eat it because I don’t want to be rude. I also kept it from Josie for years, feeling she had enough on her plate already. But when I can get amazing vegan dishes like at Miss Green Bean’s – man, I’m diggin’ in like it’s my birthday every time.

Rashid seems to love the place. It’s small and every table looks different with mismatched chairs and tablecloths. It’s a hot mess, just like New Orleans, and you never know what food they’re serving. They only offer two or three different items, and the menu changes daily. Rashid is really excited about trying new, different flavours, and I’m mesmerised seeing his joy and the fact that he lets me see it. Once I made a tiny crack in his shell, it seems to open up more and more.

We stay at Miss Green Bean’s long after we finish our meals – it’s not one of those places where they kick you out before you’ve even swallowed your last bite – and order dessert, chicory coffee and mocktails. We talk about life, the universe, and everything but also just sit there, enjoying the food, the atmosphere and each other’s company.

The evening comes to an end, much too soon for both our liking, and Rashid covers the bill (because he lost the race, he says). Without discussing it, we start walking towards my apartment building in the Warehouse District. It’s actually a beautiful walk, and Rashid’s presence keeps any nightly demons away that might be lurking in the shadows of my mind. We’re just too deep in conversation to notice much around us.

When we reach my building, there’s this short moment of awkwardness, but before I can even think about making a decision, he wraps his arms around me. It feels just as good as I imagined – warm, strong, protective. Like my body is the perfect mould for his.

“I had a wonderful evening, Wendell. Thank you.” His words come murmured against my neck, and I can only nod in reply, not trusting my voice. We stay in this embrace forever, just holding each other, neither of us wanting to let go. When Rashid finally steps away, his hands linger around my waist for a little longer, finally brushing against my hands before he leaves.

As far as dates go, Rashid and I agree that this night was our first proper date, purely romantic, with no pretence of it being anything else, and uninterrupted by work or the arrival of babies. Rashid also says I looked “damn kissable” that night, and it took all of his considerable restraint not to kiss me goodbye. I wish he had. It would have made such a better first-kiss story than our actual one.

In the following weeks, we see each other regularly. We go for runs – and there’s no doubt anymore that he let me win that first time. We sit in cafes, go for long walks in different parks (very grandfather style), and one night he takes me to Anar & Tamarind, a cosy, modern Bengali-Indian fusion restaurant tucked away in the Marigny. I love that he’s trying to share his cultural background with me, the way I shared mine with him.

It’s probably the interior and the names of dishes on the menu that trigger some childhood memories in him. While we wait for our food, he starts sharing stories of growing up with his nanu, who looked after him while his parents were at work. I think she meant the world to him. I try to picture Rashid as a small boy, with nerdy glasses and an oversized backpack, always trying to be the best in everything to make his parents proud.

He also confides in me that he never came out to his parents. I sense there is some regret, but from what he’s telling me, his parents were rather conservative, so the idea of having a gay son, their only child, might have been difficult for them. My Dad probably suspected there was “something wrong” with his son, but he lost the right to know anything about me a long time ago.

There’s quite a lot of “accidental” touching going on – we just seem to reach for the same things at the same time – and our fingers like to linger a little longer, a little too close. It’s like we’re dancing on the edge of something deeper, and we’re both enjoying this quiet tug of longing. Anticipation feels just as sweet as the thing itself. Once we’ve crossed that bridge, there is no going back.