Benjamin Adams | Blind Blind Date

Getting dressed should not have been this difficult.

Benjamin stood in the middle of his room with a shirt half-buttoned, his phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, and an expression pulled tight somewhere between concentration and mild betrayal. Fabric shifted beneath his fingers as he tried—again—to line up the buttons properly, only to realize he’d somehow skipped one in the middle.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Dick.”

On the other end, Richard Williams didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah?”

“This shirt,” Benjamin said slowly, carefully, like he was already regretting asking. “You said it was fine. Define fine.”

A beat. Then, far too casually, “It’s good, man. Trust me.”

Benjamin stilled, fingers pressing lightly against the fabric as if that would magically tell him anything useful. “That is not a definition.”

“It fits you. It’s nice.”

“That is still not a definition.”

There was the faint sound of movement on the other end—something like a drawer opening, closing, entirely unrelated to the conversation at hand—and Benjamin’s suspicion sharpened instantly.

“...what color is it?”

Another pause. Too long.

“Uh,” Richard started, voice pitching just slightly higher in a way that told on him immediately, “pink?”

Benjamin went very still. “...pink.”

“Yeah Bennie,” Richard doubled down, far too confidently now. “Like—like a soft pink. Stylish. Very you.”

Benjamin pinched the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You’re lying.”

“I’m not lying!”

“You are absolutely lying.”

“Okay, I might be approximating.”

“That is just lying with extra steps.”

A breath of laughter slipped out of Benjamin before he could stop it, tension easing just slightly as he shook his head and went back to fixing the buttons properly this time. He could picture it—Richard leaning against something, grinning like an idiot, fully aware he was being unhelpful on purpose. Typical.

“...you’re impossible,” Benjamin muttered, though there wasn’t any real bite to it.

“Yet you love me.”

“Debatable.”

“Wow. Cold. Is that the Adams family attitude kicking in? Should I be worried you’re going to snap your fingers at someone?”

Benjamin huffed, rolling his eyes even though no one could see it. “If you make one more joke about my last name, I’m canceling.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would.”

“You wouldn’t,” Richard repeated, smug now. “Because this is your blind date—get it?”

“...I’m hanging up.”

“Okay, okay, wait—don’t,” Richard rushed, words tumbling over themselves now. “You’re gonna be late, Bennie. Seriously. Shoes, grab your stuff, go.”

Benjamin hesitated, hand hovering over the dresser where he kept everything in its usual place. Keys. Wallet. Phone charger. The routine steadied him, grounded him, even with Richard’s voice buzzing in his ear.

“...you did tell them, right?” he asked, quieter now.

The line went just slightly too silent.

Then—

“Dude, you are going to be so late,” Richard said brightly, completely ignoring the question. “Like, embarrassingly late. Move.”

Benjamin frowned.

“...Richard.”

“GO,” Richard cut in, louder now, urgency layered over something that felt just a little too forced. “Text me when you get there, alright? Don’t overthink it.”

The call ended before Benjamin could press further.

He stood there for a moment, phone still in his hand, unease settling low in his chest.

Then he exhaled, squared his shoulders, and reached for his jacket.

The city was louder than his apartment had been.

Traffic surged in uneven waves, engines rumbling past, tires hissing against pavement. Voices overlapped somewhere to his left, footsteps moving in different directions, some hurried, some dragging. It was a familiar kind of chaos—one he knew how to move through—but it didn’t make it easy.

Just manageable.

Benjamin adjusted his grip on his cane, tapping it lightly ahead of him as he followed the path he’d memorized earlier that afternoon. Step, tap, step. The rhythm steadied him, even as someone brushed past his shoulder a little too close.

“Sorry,” he murmured automatically, even though it hadn’t been his fault.

Another few steps. The textured bumps beneath his feet shifted—those raised strips marking the crossing—and he slowed, angling slightly until he was lined up properly. Cars rushed past in front of him, the sound too constant, too fast.

Not yet. He waited. Counted the pattern. Listened for the lull. It didn’t come.

“...hey,” he said after a moment, turning his head slightly toward the nearest set of footsteps he could pick out. “Sorry—could you tell me when it’s clear?”

A pause. Then, “Yeah, I got you,” someone replied, closer now.

Benjamin nodded, offering a small, grateful smile. “Thank you.”

A few seconds. The shift in sound. Engines slowing, stopping. “Alright, you’re good,” the stranger said.

“Appreciate it.” He stepped forward, steady, trusting the guidance and his own sense of direction, crossing with measured confidence even as his pulse ticked just a little faster. The other side came up quickly enough, the curb solid beneath his feet again, and he exhaled quietly.

One more turn. Two blocks down. He had this. He always did.

The restaurant was warmer than outside, the noise softer, contained.

Benjamin paused just inside the entrance, letting the change settle around him before stepping forward. The faint clink of dishes, low conversation, the hum of something behind the counter—it all painted a picture clear enough for him to navigate.

“Hi,” he said, voice polite, composed. “Reservation for Adams?”

There was a brief shuffle of papers, a keyboard tap. “Right this way.”

He followed the host’s steps, careful, attentive, adjusting to the spacing of tables, chairs shifting slightly as people moved. Then—

“There you go.”

“Thank you.”

The chair was exactly where he expected it to be when he reached for it, pulling it out smoothly before sitting down. His hands settled lightly against the table’s edge, posture relaxed, controlled.

He waited. A minute passed. Then another. No voice across from him. No greeting. No movement beyond the general noise of the restaurant. Benjamin’s fingers curled slightly against the table.

Maybe they were late.

Maybe—

A small sound broke the quiet across from him. Subtle. Fabric shifting. A breath that didn’t belong to the room.

He froze.

“...hey,” he said, head tilting just slightly toward it. “Were you—have you been here long? I didn’t realize—sorry, I just got—”

He stopped himself, a faint crease forming between his brows as the silence lingered again, heavier this time. Different. Understanding slipped in, slow and quiet. His shoulders eased, just slightly. A soft exhale followed.

“...he didn’t tell you, did he?”

The restaurant was warmer than it should have been.

Not in a way that settled into comfort, but in the kind that lingered—pressing faintly against the back of his neck, catching beneath the collar of his shirt, making the space feel smaller than it actually was. Sound carried differently inside. Conversations layered into one another in low, indistinct waves, broken only by the occasional sharp clink of glass or the soft scrape of chairs shifting across the floor. It should have felt familiar. Predictable.

It didn’t.

Benjamin paused just inside the entrance, cane resting lightly against the ground as he listened, orienting himself to the shape of the room through sound alone. The layout had been explained to him in the way it always was—gestured directions, vague distances, an assumption that he could follow what wasn’t said out loud. When he’d asked for clarification, the tone had shifted, just slightly. Not openly rude. Not enough to call out without sounding difficult.

But enough.

“Reservation?” the host had asked, already distracted, already halfway somewhere else.

“No,” Benjamin had answered, voice steady, polite. “I’m meeting someone.”

There had been a pause—brief, but noticeable. The kind that lingered just long enough to feel like a judgment being made.

“Well,” the host said, sharper now, “you can wait to the side.”

To the side. As if that meant anything. Benjamin inclined his head faintly, smoothing over the flicker of confusion before it could settle into anything more visible. “Could you just—point me in the right direction?”

“I just did.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was filled with that quiet, familiar realization—of what had been expected of him, and what had not been considered. “...right,” Benjamin said after a moment, softer, more measured. “Sorry.”

He found it on his own. He always did.

By the time he was seated, the tension had settled into something quieter, folded down and tucked away where it wouldn’t show. His cane rested within reach, angled carefully against the table’s edge, and his hands moved briefly over the place setting in front of him—not searching, just confirming. The smooth line of the table, the placement of the glass, the alignment of the utensils. A quick, practiced mapping that grounded him in the space.

He let out a slow breath and leaned back slightly in his chair, shoulders easing as he settled.

Dick was late. That, at least, wasn’t surprising.

Benjamin reached for his phone, the motion familiar, automatic. His thumb found the side button, bringing the screen to life before he tapped once, twice, activating the screen reader. The soft, mechanical voice began immediately, low enough that it didn’t carry far beyond him, reading out what was there—time, notifications, the absence of anything new.

Nothing. He angled the phone slightly, listening anyway, just in case. Still nothing. He didn’t check again right away. There wasn’t any point in hovering over it, waiting for something that would come when it came—or wouldn’t.

Around him, the restaurant continued as if he wasn’t there at all. Someone laughed behind him, bright and brief before it faded back into the hum of conversation. A server passed close enough on his right that the air shifted faintly with their movement. Another chair scraped somewhere further off. The rhythm of a place that didn’t pause for anyone.

He adjusted his grip on the edge of the table, just slightly.

Waited. A minute passed. Then another. The phone buzzed against the surface in front of him. The sound was small, contained—but immediate. His hand moved without hesitation, fingers closing around it as he tapped to wake it again. The screen reader resumed, picking up where it had left off, filtering through the notification until it landed where it needed to.

A message. Of course it was. He listened.

“hey something came up, rain check?”

No apology. No explanation. Just casual. Like it hadn’t taken anything for him to get here. Like it hadn’t mattered. Benjamin held the phone for a second longer, something tightening faintly beneath the surface of his expression. Not enough to show. Just enough to feel. He exhaled quietly, then shifted his grip, tapping to activate dictation. The small chime sounded, and he brought the phone slightly closer.

“Yeah, no worries,” he said, voice even, controlled.

Another chime. Sent. Simple. Easy.

He lowered the phone back to the table, aligning it carefully with the edge, the motion deliberate in a way that kept his hands occupied for just a second longer than necessary. His shoulders dropped—not dramatically, not in a way anyone else would notice—but enough that the tension shifted.

“...right,” he murmured, almost under his breath.

He didn’t leave. He didn’t stand, didn’t reach for his cane, didn’t make the effort of navigating back through the space he’d already had to push through just to sit down. He stayed exactly where he was, hands resting lightly against the table, posture composed despite the quiet, dull weight settling somewhere low in his chest.

He had made it here. That was reason enough to stay.

A server approached eventually. He ordered something simple, something easy, letting the interaction pass quickly without much thought given to it. The exchange was brief. Efficient. Over before it had the chance to become anything else.

And then he was alone again. The space across from him stayed empty. For a few minutes, then the chair moved. It was subtle, barely more than a shift of wood against the floor, but it was close—directly across from him. Not passing by. Not distant. Someone had stopped there.

Benjamin stilled, the motion immediate but contained, his head tilting just slightly in that direction. Listening. Not searching, not uncertain—just aware in a way that had nothing to do with sight and everything to do with presence.

For a second, he said nothing. Then, before he could stop himself—

“...someone finally showed up.”

The words came out quieter than he’d intended. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just tired in a way he hadn’t meant to let slip. A pause followed. Understanding settled in just as quickly. His fingers shifted lightly against the table, grounding himself again as he exhaled through his nose, the sound soft and controlled.

“...sorry,” he added, voice lower now, more measured. “That wasn’t—meant for you.”

He dipped his head slightly, a small, almost reflexive motion, like he was resetting himself back into something more neutral, more composed.

“...you can sit,” he said after a moment, the offer quiet but genuine. “If you want. I don’t think anyone else is using it.”

Another brief pause.

“...I’m not waiting on anyone anymore.”

He didn’t explain it. Didn’t need to. Instead, he leaned back slightly in his chair, hands settling near the edge of the table again, his attention fixed—not visually, but fully—on the person across from him.

Listening.

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