The first thing you say is "Sorry," but it isn't actually about being late.
Author's Note: Inspired by "Sorry in Advance" by Marielle Kraft. Not a lyric fic—just a story that grew from the feeling of the song. If you haven't heard it before I would suggest giving it a listen.
You’re late. Which is almost impressive considering this was your idea. Patri checks her watch for what might be the fifth time and immediately tells herself to stop. This isn’t training. There’s no schedule to keep. No one’s counting reps or minutes or efficiency. She agreed to this knowing that.
She just didn’t expect to be standing outside a closed ceramics studio on a Thursday night, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, wondering how she ended up saying yes to a first date that involved clay and an instructor named Marta who had definitely looked at her funny when she asked if five minutes last was still late.
You’d pitched it like it was nothing. It’s kind of random, you’d said. But it’s fun and low pressure. Worst case, we make something ugly and laugh about it.
Patri doesn’t usually do random on first dates. She does coffee, maybe dinner. Something contained that she can leave easily if it doesn’t feel right. This had felt different, not risky — just unfamiliar. She’s surprised herself by agreeing without overthinking it. Honestly, she’s still surprised.
“Sorry.” Your voice cuts through her thoughts as you jog up the sidewalk, breathless and smiling like you’re not even slightly ashamed. You slow when you reach her, hands braced on your knees for half a second.
“I know. I know,” you say quickly. “Five minutes late is basically on time for me, but I swear it wasn’t intentional. I ran into – actually, no, that’s a lie. I lost track of time.”
Patri watches you with the same focus she used on the pitch, cataloguing details without meaning to: the flushed cheeks, the way you talk with your hands even when you’re apologizing, the complete absence of nerves.
“It’s fine,” she says automatically.
You straighten, grinning like you don’t quite believe her but accept it anyway. “You say that like you mean it.
“I do,” Patri says. Realizing a beat later that she does.
The class ends up being exactly what you promised — messy, unstructured. Marta corrects your hands twice and gives up. You laugh too loudly when your bowl collapses in on itself and insist it has character. Patri’s hands are steady and precise, but she doesn’t mind when you bump her elbow or smear clay where it doesn’t belong.
It’s not what she would’ve chosen, but it’s exactly what she didn’t know she needed.
By the time you’re heading back to your place, shoes dusted and fingers still smelling faintly like wet earth, Patri realizes something else — she hasn’t checked her phone once. Not for messages, time nor an exit.
First date. No backup plan, No urge to leave early. That alone feels new.
You talk the entire way, jumping between stories like you’re tracing constellations only you can see. Names she doesn’t recognize. People she hasn’t met. You don’t pause to explain any of it. You don’t check to see if she’s following. You just assume she will. And she does. You only stop talking when you both reach your front door.
“Well,” you say, glancing at the door, then back at her. “For a first date, that went…shockingly well.”
Patri huffs a quiet laugh. “Is that your professional assessment?”
“I don’t usually pick something like that for a first date,” you admit. “And I definitely don’t usually rul late to my own ideas. So year, I’d call it a win.”
That catches her off guard — not because it surprises her, but because it mirrors something she hasn’t said out loud.
“Yeah,” Patri says. “Same.”
You tilt your head, curious but not pushing. “Yeah?”
You smile like that answers more than one question and the thought comes to her uninvited, unfiltered; settling low and certain in her chest. You are going to quietly ruin the way I’ve been doing life. Patri doesn’t know yet whether it’s a warning or an observation.
You hesitate at the door, keys already in your hand like you’re deciding something. Patri stays where she is, giving you space she doesn’t feel particularly good about offering.
“I had a really good time,” you say. Causal. Honest. “Which is not something I say lightly on a first date.”
Patri’s mouth cures despite herself. “Me neither.”
There’s a pause — not awkward, not searching. Just quiet. The kind that stretches because neither of you rushes to fill it. She’s already aware of it, the unspoken rule you both seem to share. No rushing. No first-date kisses. Too much weight too soon, usually. Too many expectations wrapped up in something that should still be light. So when you step closer, it takes her a second to register it. Not because it’s sudden — because it’s deliberate.
Your hand brushes her arm as you lean in, warm through the fabric of her jacket, grounding in a way that makes her chest tighten. The kiss itself is soft and brief, more certain than urgent, like you’re checking something rather than claiming it. Your lips fit easily against hers, familiar in a way that makes absolutely no sense.
For a heartbeat, she forgets to think. She just feels — the warmth, the steadiness, the quiet rightness of it — and then it’s over. You pull back first, just far enough to give her space again.
You pull back just enough to look at her, eyes bright, words tumbling out before you stop them. “Wow,” you say, half-laughing. “Okay, cool, so that’s either the last first kiss I ever have or I’ve officially ruined my own rules.”
The sentence lands crooked. Unpolished. Honest in a way you probably didn’t mean to be.
You blink like you’ve just heard yourself. “Sorry,” you say immediately, smiling like you’re half-expecting her to call you out. “I don’t usually —”
“It’s okay,” Patri cuts in, quicker than she means to. She clears her throat, grounding herself. “I don’t usually either.”
Your smile softens at that, something quieter settling in behind it. “Good.” The word lands heavier than it should. You step back then, easy and unbothered, like the kiss didn’t demand anything further from either of you. Like it was just something that happened — something allowed.
“Text me when you get home,” you say, already opening the door.
“I will,” Patri says, even though she usually hates being told that.
You give her one last smile — bright, familiar, entirely yourself —and disappear inside, the door closing softly behind you. Patri stands there for a moment longer than necessary, pulse steady but mind loud, replaying the exact shape of the kiss like it might change if she thinks about it hard enough. It doesn’t.
Patri doesn’t make it out of the neighborhood before her phone rings. She glances at the screen and exhales a quiet laugh when she sees Alexia’s name. Of course, like she’s been summoned.
She considers letting it ring for half a second then answers.
“Hola,” Patri answers, pulling out of the neighborhood.
“Well?” Alexia says immediately. “How did it go?”
Patri opens her mouth to answer and nothing coherent comes out. “It was —” She exhales, fingers tightening on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Fine. Not fine. It was a first date.”
Alexia hums. “That’s a lot of qualifiers.”
Patri snorts despite herself. “I’m driving. I can’t — I keep replaying it.”
“It’s not,” Patri says quickly. “I mean — it shouldn’t be. It was just one night.”
“And yet,” Alexia prompts.
Patri turns the radio on without thinking. Music fills the car too loudly and she immediately turns it back down again, the quiet rushing in like its been waiting for her. “I can’t stop thinking about stupid things,” she admits. “Not even the kiss. The way she laughed. The way she didn’t hesitate about anything. She picked the date, ran late to her own idea, and somehow that didn’t bother me at all.”
Alexia laughs. “That alone is concerning.”
“That’s what I’m saying,” Patri replies. “I keep telling myself this is ridiculous. I know how first dates go. I know how to keep things contained.”
“And yet,” Alexia says again, smiling into the word.
“And yet my chest feels…busy,” Patri says, the words slipping out before she can stop it. “Not tight. Just — full. Like something moved in without asking.”
There’s a pause on the line. Not judgemental. Interested.
“She kissed me,” Patri adds. “Which I don’t do. Not on first dates.”
Alexia’s tone softens. “And?”
“And it wasn’t dramatic,” Patri responds. “That’s what’s messing with me. It was soft. Brief. And then she stepped back like she trusted me not to disappear.” She shakes her head even though Alexia can’t see it. “I turned the radio on. Turned it off. I said out loud that this was ridiculous.”
“No,” Patri admits. “It made it worse.”
Alexia chuckles. “You’re spiraling.”
“You absolutely are spiraling,” Alexia says fondly. “You never talk like this.”
Patri falls quiet at that, the city slipping past her in blurred shapes. “She texted me,” Patri says after a moment. “Said she made it inside. Said she’s blaming me if she can’t sleep.”
“And I smiled. I don’t do that either.”
Alexia doesn’t hate this time. “She’s bringing chaos into your life.”
Patri grimaces. “That’s not —”
“In the best way,” Alexia finishes. “You sound alive, P.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“I keep thinking she’s going to ruin the way I’ve been doing life,” Patri says quietly. “Like everything is about to get rearranged and I didn’t agree to it.”
Alexia’s voice gentles. “Did you pull away?”
Patri exhales, long and steady. “Not even a little.”
Alexia smiles — Patri can hear it. “Then maybe it’s not ruining anything.”
Patri stays in the car longer than she needs to. The engine is off now, the quiet settling around her in a way that feels heavier than it should. Her phone rests face-down in her lap, Alexia’s words still echoing faintly in her head. You sound alive.
She exhales slowly, staring out through the windshield at nothing in particular. The is usually the part where she regains control. Where she files the night away, categorizes it, decides what it means later — when it’s quieter, safer, contained.
This isn’t happening. Instead, the moments keep resurfacing out of order Your laugh. The way you didn’t linger. The kiss that didn’t ask. The chaos you brought with you without even trying. And then your voice again, too fast and half-laughing, like you hadn’t meant to say it out loud at all. Okay, cool, so that’s either the last first kiss I ever have or I’ve officially ruined my own rules.
Patri’s mouth curves despite herself. She’s spent so long living by rules she didn’t remember agreeing to — first dates that stay light, feelings that stay contained, a life that stays ordered enough to manage. She thinks, suddenly, that there may not be rules anymore. Or maybe there never were.
The realization doesn’t send her into panic. It doesn’t even feel like loss. I feels like possibility.
Her phone buzzes softly in her hand, the vibration gentle enough that it feels more like a reminder than an interruption. She looks down.
You
Just making sure you got home okay.
Something in her chest loosens at the simplicity of it — the lack of urgency, the absence of expectation. She types back before she can think better of it.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then appear again.
Patri smiles, small and private, and sets the phone face-down again. You are going to quietly ruin the way I’ve been doing life. She lets her head fall back against the seat, eyes closing for just a second. She doesn’t reach for her phone. She doesn’t make a plan. She doesn’t try to get ahead of it.
For the first time, she lets the feeling exist without containment. And somewhere beneath the anticipation, there’s something steadier beginning to take shape. Not fear. Not urgency. Just the quiet understanding that whatever comes next, she doesn’t want to put away.
She picked up her phone one more time, smiling to herself as her thumbs hovered over the screen.
Patri
Maybe some rules are worth breaking.
Sweet dreams.
She watched the message sent before slipping her phone into her pocket and stepping out of the car, walking inside with a smile on her face.
