It’s been almost a week since Jamie crashed at my place. Just like he promised, he climbed back out the window at sunrise, like some ghost slipping back into the shadows. I haven’t heard from him since, but I’ve seen him a couple of times at school—always from a distance. Seeing him was always a relief. A sign he was still hanging in there.

I told Chris about that night the next day, like I promised. He’d already had time to cool off by then. And honestly, I can’t blame him—I probably would’ve reacted way worse. But he listened, nodded, didn’t judge. I’m not sure he really gets Jamie—then again, neither do I, most of the time. But Chris understood how I felt. He didn’t make it harder. And I was so thankful for that.

By the time I got to the coffee shop, Chris was already there, setting up for the afternoon. The air smelled like roasted beans and vanilla syrup, and the low hum of the espresso machine blended with the soft indie track playing overhead.

Chris was focused on stacking mugs on the shelf, completely in his own world. I had no idea stacking mugs required intense focus. If it were me, I’d just jam them on the shelf.

But I liked how much he paid attention to the small details. Just seeing him like that, focused, made my day better by default. I can't explain why, and it probably sounds dumb, but it really does something to me.

The shifts when we worked together had quickly become my favorite. We even swapped schedules with other coworkers sometimes, just to spend more time in sync. Like today.

I slipped behind the counter and started wiping down the espresso machine, stealing glances at him.

“You seem tired,” I said.

He didn’t turn around, just shrugged. “I slept, like, four hours.”

It was said lightly, but something in his voice was thinner than usual.

“Bad night, huh?”

I kept pressing. I already knew that sometimes I have to pluck the information out of him piece by piece. It's not like he doesn't want to talk, but I have a feeling he prefers me to ask him bit by bit.

He paused for a beat. “Not terrible. Just... I couldn't shut my brain off.”

“Worried about tomorrow’s test?”

He nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You put too much pressure on yourself. The world’s not gonna end if you don’t get an A.”

“I know... but I’m always afraid I’ll forget something important. Or I’ll sleep in and miss it entirely.”

I arched a brow. “How many times have you ever slept in?”

“None.”

“There you go. The probability of that happening is microscopic.”

“I know, but still...”

“Come over later. We’ll watch a movie or something. I’ll drive you home after.”

He hesitated. “But it’s a school night.”

“And it’ll be a short movie. C’mon. You need to chill a little.”

Finally, he smiled. “Okay, you’ve convinced me.”

“You’re very easy to convince, not gonna lie.”

“I’m very easily convinced by you.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Don’t abuse it, though.”

The afternoon rush came and went, customers trickling out with lattes and thank-yous until the place grew quiet. I remembered something then.

“Be right back,” I said.

Before Chris could ask, I ducked into the back and rummaged through my bag. I pulled out a slightly crumpled paper and hurried back to the front, heart weirdly jittery. He looked at me, confused.

I slapped the paper down on the counter. “Look!”

He leaned over. “Really? A B+? That’s awesome!”

“Right? But it’s English, so it doesn’t really count. Should’ve been higher.”

Still, it felt unreal. I used to be a decent student when I was younger, before things went to shit. The past couple of years, I’d floated between Ds and Fs, like I was sinking and didn’t even care anymore. Somewhere along the way, I started thinking that was just who I was now. A screw-up.

But Chris never bought into that.

“What did I tell you?” he said. “Small steps. I knew you could do it.”

I smirked. “Sooo... maybe I deserve some kind of prize.”

Chris tilted his head. “It’s not an A, though.”

“Close enough. Actually, I remembered I need help grabbing a bag of coffee from storage.

He narrowed his eyes. “Let me guess... You suddenly can’t carry one bag on your own?”

“Yeah. Hurt my back in PE. Tragic.”

He rolled his eyes, smiling. “Uh-huh.”

We slipped into the storeroom together, the door creaking behind us. The light flickered above us, dim, almost moody. I grabbed the bag and set it on the shelf beside us.

But neither of us moved.

He was watching me. Softly. Like he already knew what was coming. He reached back and quietly closed the door. Then I stepped in—close enough that our noses nearly touched.

And then our lips did.

Chris pulled me in without hesitation, arms locking around my waist.

I pressed my thigh between his legs, pinning him to the door, and his breath caught, right there, against my cheek.

Fingers. Shirt. Skin.

I slid my hand under the back of his, and—oh—warm. Too warm. Electrifying.

He shivered against me, and my heart went from “slightly elevated” to “sprinting for its life.”

Then his fingers trailed along the waistband of my jeans.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

I wanted to yank his T-shirt off. Or better—everything off.

Right now.

In the middle of the café.

Yes, I’m aware this is a bad idea. No, I do not care.

Then—ding.

The bell.

The bell of doom.

A new customer.

“Shit,” I whispered.

We scrambled apart like guilty teenagers in a movie, rushing back to the counter. I silently thanked every deity on shift that I was behind it and not out on the floor, because I needed… a moment. Painful moment, literally. If you’re a guy, you know.

These moments between us are getting more frequent. More intense. I’m not complaining at all. But, not gonna lie, it’s driving me insane.

***

After closing, we booked it to my house, hungry for whatever time we could steal.

“You want some popcorn?” I asked, already tossing a bag into the microwave.

“Sure,” Chris said, leaning lazily against the fridge.

I pressed the “popcorn” preset without thinking.

“How long did you set it for?” he asked.

“I just hit the preset.”

Chris groaned. “Oh my God, you need to read the instructions on the package.”

“Read instructions? For popcorn? Please. It’s not that deep.”

I rubbed his back casually, and the popping inside the microwave turned aggressive. It went on and on, way too loud. And then—

“Take them out!” Chris shouted.

I yanked open the microwave. No fire. No smoke. Just the charred scent of burnt popcorn flooding the kitchen.

“It’s okay,” I said, fanning the air. “We might’ve lost a few kernels. No big deal.”

“I knew it,” Chris muttered. “You always do this. There are instructions for a reason.”

No one reads the instructions. That’s a fact.

Of course, I didn’t say that out loud. He’d murder me.

Tracy wandered in, grabbing an apple from the counter, and looking entirely unimpressed.

“What did you burn?” she asked.

“We might have had an accident with the popcorn,” I admitted.

“Yeah, Troy burned them,” Chris added, totally throwing me under the bus.

Tracy looked at me like I was the dumbest person alive, nose wrinkling. “Who burns popcorn?”

“He used the microwave preset,” Chris said.

“Rookie mistake. Good job, buddy.”

I turned to Chris with a sigh. “I just wanted you to relax, not stress more.”

He rolled his eyes, but I could tell he wasn’t really mad. We headed upstairs to my room.

We curled up on my bed, a movie playing low on my laptop. Chris sat cross-legged beside me, wrapped in a blanket like he was trying to disappear inside it. The popcorn was half-burnt, the Coke was flat, and the movie wasn’t even that good.

But honestly? It was kind of perfect.

“Did you ever think relationships would be, like... I don’t know. More dramatic?” Chris asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?”

“Like in movies. Crying in the rain. Running through airports. Big speeches in front of lockers.”

I snorted. “You want me to chase you through an airport?”

“I mean... You could try. I’d probably trip you with my suitcase.”

“How romantic.”

He laughed softly, tugging the blanket up to his nose.

“But I’m glad it’s not, you know?” he admitted. “I like it just like this.”

“Guy who flirts by faking injuries over coffee bags.”

“Hey, it worked.”

I leaned in and kissed him.

“C’mon,” I murmured, opening my arms.

Chris scooted closer and rested his head on my shoulder. I didn’t move. Didn’t want to risk breaking the moment.

With how close he was, I was pretty sure he could hear my heart racing.

His hair brushed my cheek and smelled faintly of peaches. Or maybe nectarines. Something soft and summery, like it didn’t belong in a world with stress or school or burnt popcorn.

After a minute, I felt his fingers graze my ear. He fidgeted with the small ring there, gently, almost absent-minded.

“When did you get your ears pierced?” he asked quietly.

“Eighth grade, I think. My mom was so pissed, she didn’t speak to me for a week. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering. Does it hurt when I tug on it a bit?”

“Nope. Not anymore.” I caught the ring between my fingers and twisted it. “See?”

Chris recoiled with a scrunched-up nose. “That’s so weird.”

I laughed. “But?”

“But I like it,” he said. “It suits you.”

“Thanks.” My voice came out softer than I meant. I glanced at him, and he was still staring at the ring, at me, at something I couldn’t quite name.

I knew that look. Something was turning over in his head.

He hesitated, then: “Can I ask you something?”

There it was.

His glasses were forgotten on the bedside table, so he looked at me with those big green eyes of his that always disarmed me right away. And I could see every single freckle on his face. A full map of them.

God, he’s beautiful.

Look at me... getting so sappy. Disgusting. But not really.

I tried to play it cool. “Is it weird, awkward, or gross?”

“Kinda.”

“Then absolutely. Go for it.”

He took a breath and looked away. “I was wondering... how far have you gone? You know. With someone.”

I wasn’t expecting that. I wanted to talk with him about this stuff, but I'd have preferred it to be about us, not things I'd rather leave behind.

“Not very far,” I said. “Just, uh, you know, hand jobs. With a couple of random guys who probably couldn’t even tell you my first name.”

I tried to play it as a joke. It didn’t land like one.

He nodded slowly. “So... are you kinda technically a virgin?”

I paused.

Technically? What does that even mean? Like there’s a scoreboard somewhere?

I really don’t like that word. What’s the threshold anyway?

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to let it pass.

“I guess, yeah. At least in most ways.”

His eyes widened a little. “Cool.”

“So you wouldn't be with me if I weren't a true, pure virgin?”

He scoffed. “Of course I would! And you're everything but pure.”

I flinched. Normally, I'd laugh it off. But something about it rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe because I was tired, or maybe because this conversation felt like it wasn't going anywhere. Or maybe because I was trying so hard to make him feel better, but it was just making me feel worse.

“Right. Because that’s such a compliment.” It came out bitter.

He blinked, startled, eyes immediately dropping to the blanket. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like—”

“It’s fine. Can we please change the subject?”

“We can, but I just wanted to understand...”

I sighed. I knew why he was asking. I knew he felt insecure about me having more experience. I think in his head, I've done a lot more than I actually have.

And sure, I was probably more comfortable with sex than he was. To me, it wasn't a huge deal. But right now, it felt like I was a piece of meat being analyzed to see if I was rotten or not. I hated it.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? But I really don’t wanna talk about those other guys. Honestly, that whole period was just... really dark for me. It was lonely, and I was looking for something that wasn't even there. It kinda bothers me that you're so focused on how much experience I have or don't have. I get why you ask, but can we just—not? Not like this.” I paused, catching my breath. “But if you wanna talk about us, then I’m all for it.”

Chris nodded slowly, looking both relieved and regretful. “Okay. I get it.”

For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence stretched out—not awkward exactly, but still heavy, like we were both trying to figure out how to move past it.

Then, slowly, Chris’s fingers brushed against mine under the blanket. Tentative. Gentle. It felt like a question, an apology, and an offer all at once.

I exhaled softly, letting some of the tension leave my body, and curled my fingers around his.

“I'm sorry, Troy,” he said quietly. “I didn't mean to push.”

“I know,” I whispered. And I meant it. I squeezed his hand gently, reassuring both of us that we were still okay. “I just want us to feel like us, you know? Not like we're racing or falling behind or whatever.”

He finally looked up, a small, relieved smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You're right. Let’s forget about the past, then. Start over.”

“Just you and me and no idea what we're doing?”

He leaned in and kissed me softly. “Yeah, just you and me.”