Sometimes compatibility unfolds over long conversations at coffee shops or even on the dance floor. Mine and Fernando’s became apparent on our seventh date, standing on a dark corner in downtown L.A. After a short flight, a day at Venice Beach and the fastest glow-up ever for a mom of three, my date opened his hands, sighed and canceled the glorious evening I’d planned. It was supposed to start with a jazz club and end with a tour of late-night sushi bars, until Fernando said, “I feel like a bummer.”

I hooked my arm through the crook of his, turning back toward the empty streets and our stuffy Airbnb.

A few weeks before, on one of our first dates, I’d told Fernando I was presenting at a conference in L.A. “You should join me,” I said, half joking.

“Really?” he asked. “You don’t know me at all.”

He was right. We were in the polite phase. We bonded over being transplants to Seattle — him from the Dominican Republic, me from Florida, but we were still figuring out the basics. I hadn’t learned yet that he never touches coffee but totally loves cake, my least favorite treat. And for me, espresso is a daily requirement.

Fernando didn’t say yes to my invitation right away. We continued to date, playing the questions game. “What’s your favorite snack?” he asked me.

“Mole tacos,” I said. “What’s your biggest flaw?”

“Follow through,” he said. “Yours?”

“I’m annoyingly persistent.”

“Perfect match,” he said.

The more we talked, the more we realized that our shortcomings, which made us look like exact opposites, came from the same root. His father had been barely present during childhood, and my father had died when I was a teenager. We both wrestled with trying to find agency inside of moments in our adult lives that felt like abandonment. Although we’d each been in therapy for years before we met, we also struggled to deal with disappointment.

“Maybe we should go on this wild trip together,” he said.

“Make-it-or-break-it style,” I said.

When we stepped through the door of our downtown L.A. Airbnb after a long, hot day walking the boardwalk, we had our first chance to manage a letdown, together.

“I think people actually live here,” he said.

“Like it’s 2015,” I said.

We’d made a commitment before we flew out to keep things light. If one of us complained, the other was supposed to say something fun. But the apartment was muggy, the surfaces covered in dust. We made exaggerated, positive comments about the vintage decor as I waited for the water to warm in a huge, clawfoot tub.

Fernando said something about getting in while the shower was still cold, so we could preserve water for the good people of California. I noted the fatherly tone — and realized I probably seemed wasteful for resisting the chilly stream during a drought.

While I bathed, he shaved. Then we switched. “I feel shy but not shy,” Fernando said, and I agreed. I wondered if this would be the first of many small, sweet moments — or if it was the only time we’d ever share this kind of intimacy.

We were finally ready for our night on the town, but we only walked six blocks before Fernando turned to me and told me that he was too tired to keep going.

“I owe you,” he said, as we walked back, but I was wiped too and relieved he said it first.

“What if we do something different and call it exciting?” I asked.

We talked about the absolute thrill of ordering takeout in a city that was 30 degrees warmer than the one where we both lived, listing every little thing that was totally amazing around us. All those closed-down garages that would open in the morning selling fabric? Gorgeous.

The dark streetlights on one side of the road that made the shadows look like a modern noir film? Fabulous.

The fact that we were about to fall asleep in the same city as dozens of celebrities we both adored? Relatively meaningless but still badass.

As we ate our to-go sushi in downtown L.A., I realized I wasn’t disappointed at all. My drive to follow through was all about the mission, and our mission had changed. Instead of wooing my new date with a super swanky night on the town, I had the opportunity to connect with him in a real way.

Our trip to L.A. had become a kind of test, way more intense than agreeing on a sofa or building an IKEA shelf. We were stuck spending time with each other without performing, in a strange city, for days.

After I presented at the conference the next morning, Fernando and I moved to a new rental in the Hollywood Hills, where we found our way to endless taco stands and two speakeasies, Good Times at Davey Wayne’s and Adults Only. The only landmark we saw was Muscle Beach, and the only quintessential L.A. thing we did was accidentally find ourselves in front of the Last Bookstore an hour before we needed to head to the airport, so we spent that hour walking around inside.

“Let’s keep traveling,” we said to each other on the way home.

Seven years and dozens of trips later, I engraved “I will travel with you” on the inside of our wedding rings. The night before our wedding, we stood together in a tiny bathroom in his sister’s house in the Dominican Republic, washing our faces. I looked at him in the mirror. He turned and looked at me. “I’m really glad you invited me to Los Angeles,” he said.

“It was a risk,” I said, “and the best trip ever.”

The city isn’t ours, but it made us who we are, together.

The author is a journalist and illustrator working on a memoir about Florida. She splits her time between her Seattle, L.A. and the Deep South. Her Instagram is @adjsbb and website is AshaDore.net.

L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.