I Gave Up On Men, Then I Fell In Love With My Best Friend

I can tell within three minutes that Brad is going to be one of the ones I tell the group chat about. Not because he’s awful, exactly. Just because he’s a walking listicle.

“I dislike olives,” he says, reading off his mental cue cards while he wipes the condensation off his water glass with a square of napkin. “Like, passionately. Also, dogs that jump. And brunch. Overrated. The concept of brunch is a scam.”

I nod and make a noise that could mean anything. In my head, I’m laying out a red nine on a black ten. My phone is face down beside the bread basket, but the muscle memory is something I’ve trained like a pet. Flip card, move card, hold for a king. Solitaire has been my survival skill through a parade of dates who think “no cats” is a personality.

“I’m also not into musicals,” he continues. “Or birthdays. Or people who clap when the plane lands. That’s actually a dealbreaker.”

A black eight appears in my mind’s eye, and I drag a red seven onto it. I glance up, smile. He beams like he’s said something brave.

“What do you… like?” I ask, because I’m a generous person and because the deck needs a shuffle.

He leans back, stretching his arm across the empty chair as if to claim it. “Efficiency. Minimalist aesthetics. Fintech. Keto.”

I take a sip of my wine and resist the urge to text my friends under the table. Group chat: Brad dislikes clapping, dogs, and joy. I place a queen over a king in my mind and wonder if that’s legally binding somewhere.

It’s fine. I’ve met worse. There was the guy who thought “I don’t read” was a seductive confession. The guy who brought his mother, who was “just in the neighborhood.” The guy who thought he was a comedian and tested all his material on me like I was a tight five at a sad open mic. If dating is a deck, I’ve been dealt a lot of twos.

Brad watches the waiter set down our salads and immediately says, “Dressing on the side?” even though we didn’t discuss dressing. He looks relieved when it is, as if the universe has finally aligned with his standards.

“What do you do for fun?” I try again, fork poised.

He pauses, thoughtful. “I optimize my morning routine. Cold showers. Breathwork. I dislike naps.”

I spear a cherry tomato and imagine moving a black six onto a red seven. “I nap religiously,” I confess. “It’s my personality.”

He frowns slightly, like I’ve admitted to a felony. “I’m not judging,” he adds, which is generous, considering all the evidence.

Halfway through the main course, he launches into a detailed explanation of why he refuses to appreciate dessert. “Sugar is a scam,” he says. “Birthday cakes? Manipulation.” He delivers it like a TED Talk, and I nod along, stacking aces in my head. For a minute, I play the what-if game—what if I cared enough to argue, to charm, to sell myself? But the truth is, my energy is spent on not laughing. Not at him, really. More at the absurdity of it all.

The thing is, I’m not even sad anymore. The disappointment has been replaced by this weird amusement, like I’ve wandered into a long-running play where everyone knows their lines except me. I’ve been fumbling my way through these scenes for so long that I forgot there could be a different script.

Brad’s voice softens, unexpectedly. “I dislike people who settle,” he says, and I think we might finally agree on something, except I realize he means settling for imperfect. He means olives and birthdays.

When the check comes, I reach for my wallet out of habit. He puts a hand up. “I’ll get it,” he says. “I dislike Venmo requests.”

Outside, the night is wet and neon, the air smelling like rain and exhaust. He gives me a quick, dry hug and a reminder to try butter coffee. I promise to consider it. He strides away, purposeful, a man with nothing weighing him down.

I stand there a second longer, my phone warm in my palm. My thumb itches toward the solitaire app. I open it and start a new game, the digital cards shuffling and snapping into place. The first move presents itself, easy. Red seven on black eight. I smile, a little in spite of myself. Some nights, winning is just getting out the door with your humor intact. Some nights, that’s enough.

My feet take me three blocks west without consulting my brain. The red lantern in the window is a beacon. The 24-hour ramen place is humming like always—late shift nurses, a couple on a first date speaking in careful, bright voices, a man in a suit slurping alone while watching soccer highlights with subtitles. The air smells like pork broth and garlic. It smells like relief.

I slide onto my usual stool at the counter and nod at Kenji. He pretends he’s not offended I cheated on him with a kale Caesar earlier. “The usual?” he asks.

“Extra scallions. And can I get a water? I’ve been told I’m dehydrated because I don’t drink butter.”

He grins and thumps a glass of ice water in front of me. My shoulders drop a full inch. I close the solitaire app before I can deal a new hand and put the phone face down, like a contract with myself. Ten minutes to quiet, to broth, to reheating my sense of humor.

I’m halfway through untangling my chopsticks when there’s a sharp skid behind me, a gasp, and then cold hits my thighs so fast I yelp. The glass explodes into a bright tinkling choir as it bounces off the tile, and ice scatters into my lap like confetti from the world’s worst parade.

“Oh my god,” a voice says, horrified and breathless. “I—this was—gravity and I are in a toxic relationship.”

I’m frozen, water dripping down my knees, my napkin heroic but helpless. I look up at the source of the chaos. He’s tall, hair a little longer on top, dark and damp at the edges like the rain caught him. His mouth is open in a shocked O, like he can’t believe his own limbs betrayed him.

“I’m so sorry,” he rushes, hands lifted as if to show he’s not armed with any more liquids. “I tripped on absolutely nothing. Which is classic me. Hi, I’m Alex, and I’m here to ruin your pants.”

A laugh pops out of me before I can stop it. “Jing,” I say, because if I’m going to have soaked thighs, at least we can be on a first-name basis.

He winces, then launches into this frantic pantomime of what happened. He points at the stack of plastic trays by the water pitcher, mimes stepping, sliding, flailing. He recreates the back-and-forth arm windmill in slow motion, his face contorting like a cartoon character trying to avoid a banana peel. He makes a soft whoop noise under his breath for sound effects. It would be ridiculous if it weren’t so precise.

“And then,” he says, gesturing at my lap with sincere dread, “splashdown.”

“I’ve always wanted to feel like an ice luge,” I say. “Bucket list item, checked.”

Kenji appears with a stack of towels like a guardian angel, tossing a glare at Alex that promises banishment if he breathes wrong. Alex takes a towel and crouches, then thinks better of it and stands, shoving the towel toward me with both hands. “I will not attempt to dab you. That’s a line I will not cross without written consent and an OSHA certification.”

I blot at my jeans and shake my head, still smiling. The initial shock is fading into cool damp and the weird warmth of someone else’s embarrassment washing over me like a space heater. He’s mortified in this pure, unfiltered way that feels… earnest.

“I’ll pay for your ramen,” he blurts. “And your dry cleaning. And a new outfit. And your therapy copay for the trauma of this moment.”

“You can buy me a pair of those waterproof pants fishermen wear,” I say. “Just in case we run into each other again.”

He presses a hand to his chest, relieved I’m not angry. “Deal. Please let me make this right at least with hot broth.” He looks at Kenji. “Can I get another water? In a sippy cup? And one miso, extra scallions. And whatever she was having—on me.”

Kenji snorts but rings it up. Alex hovers like a contrite golden retriever, then gestures to the empty stool beside me. “Can I—sit? Or should I go stand in the corner and think about what I’ve done?”

“You can sit,” I say, sliding my purse out of the splash zone. “But if you knock over my chopsticks, we’re going to have words.”

He grins, sheepish. “I’ll keep my limbs in my lane.” He lowers himself with exaggerated care, hands folded in his lap like he’s at a job interview. Up close, his eyes are ridiculous. Warm and bright, the kind people write songs about. He smells like rain and detergent and a little like the soy sauce dispenser he almost collided with.

“I swear I’m not usually this,” he says, chopping a hand through the air to indicate chaos. “Okay, I am. But not at women who look like they just escaped a terrible date.”

My eyebrows go up. “How did you know it was terrible?”

“You have that post-battle look. Slightly shell-shocked, slightly amused, like someone tried to sell you on cryptocurrency as a personality trait.”

I lean into a laugh that loosens something in my chest. “Close. Keto and the abolition of birthdays.”

He groans in sympathy, dramatic. “Crimes against cake.”

“Exactly,” I say. The dampness is still there, but the embarrassment isn’t. It’s been replaced by this odd lightness that makes space in my ribcage. Kenji sets down our bowls, steam curling up, and Alex sits perfectly still, as if the ramen is a bomb and movement could jostle it.

“I’m going to eat this,” he whispers. “Very slowly. To rebuild trust.”

I shake my head, smiling into my chopsticks. The night, which was edging toward bleak, shifts a few degrees warmer. I blow on my noodles, and his shoulder bumps mine lightly as he adjusts. My heart does a small, surprised flip, as if I’ve turned over a card I didn’t expect.

We settle into an easy rhythm, the kind that doesn’t need planning. He eats with a reverence that makes me snort into my broth, and when a noodle slaps his chin, he pauses like he’s been assaulted. He catches it with the tip of his tongue, goes red, and then dives into a story before I can tease him.

“So, I went on a date last month,” he starts, resting his chopsticks on the edge of the bowl. “Wine bar. Exposed brick. Dim lighting. The kind of place where the napkins feel like they went to private school.” He takes a breath. “Three minutes in, a group of guys in button-ups waves at me. I wave back because I was raised to be pleasant. One of them mouths, ‘Cabernet?’ and holds up a bottle.”

“Oh no,” I say, already seeing it.

“Oh yes. I thought he was just… being friendly? So I nod. He pours. The table behind me claps. The woman I’m with looks stunned, which, fair. I hand them the bottle and the cork like I do this professionally. Then the table on the other side snaps their fingers—like, actually—and points at water glasses. And I—God help me—I refill them.” He drags a palm down his face. “I spent the first fifteen minutes of the date hydrating an entire room.”

I laugh so hard Kenji looks up, amused. “Did anyone tip you?”

“One guy tried to give me cash. I panicked and said, ‘Oh no, we actually add the gratuity automatically.’” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know where that came from. The best part? The actual waiter came over, and I instinctively stepped aside like we were passing the baton in a relay.”

“And the woman?” I ask.

“She was crying,” he says. “From laughter, thank God. We didn’t work out—she was moving to Portland to do something spiritual with bees—but she did send me a photo of a honey jar last week with the caption ‘service industry hero.’”

“Bees are lucky to have her,” I say.

“They really are,” he says, deadpan, then grins when I laugh again. It settles between us—this comfortable, unexpected clique of humor. Nothing to impress. No posturing. I feel my shoulders stay low.

We eat in companionable silence for a minute. He nudges the soy eggs toward me like an offering. “You a broth sipper or a bowl tilting renegade?” he asks.

“Renegade,” I admit. “I respect gravity in theory but not in practice.”

“Kindred spirits,” he says, and we both tilt at the same time. It’s messy and perfect.

He wipes his mouth and leans in a little. “Okay, this is a weird question, but your shirt has Godzilla in tiny print on the tag. Do you—are you into those old monster movies? Or did you buy it for the color and I’m outing myself as a nerd?”

I blink. “You can recognize the Godzilla font from a tag?”

“I have a very specific brain,” he says.

“I do, actually,” I say, surprised by how much I want to admit it. “Creature from the Black Lagoon is my comfort movie. It’s like… the practical effects, the sincerity, the way the creature is more misunderstood than evil.”

His eyes light. “Yes. The suit work? Those underwater shots? It’s art. And don’t even get me started on the original Mothra. The tiny singing twins? Peak cinema.”

I drop my chopsticks and put a hand to my chest. “People mock me when I bring up the twins.”

“Those people aren’t your people,” he says. “I once built a miniature of the Tokyo skyline out of cereal boxes so I could film my friend in a lizard costume stomping through it for a film class. It was… not good. But my professor gave me a B for ambition.”

I lean on the counter, grinning. “Do you have footage?”

“Absolutely not,” he says too fast, then softens. “Okay, yes. But you have to sign an NDA.”

“I’ll trade you for the photo of six-year-old me dressed as Gill-man. My dad made me webbed gloves out of dishwashing rubber.”

His smile falters into something warm. “That’s incredible. And very on brand.”

We fall into listing favorites like we’re comparing notes we’re both relieved to finally show someone. I tell him how the Bela Lugosi Dracula taught me that romance could be scary and tender. He confesses the original King Kong made him cry for days because of the ending. We argue over the best wolfman transformation like it matters, and somehow it does.

It feels easy. It feels like finding a rhythm we already knew. He asks questions and actually listens to my answers. I don’t perform or fill the silence with nervous jokes. When our knees bump, it’s just contact, not a negotiation.

Kenji refills our waters and gives us a look that means we’ve passed some unspoken test. Alex thanks him with an earnestness that makes my chest ache in a clean way. My phone stays face down. I don’t think about the exit, or the next move, or what I owe in charm. I just sit there with a man who uses words like “sincere” about monsters and laughs with his whole body.

I didn’t know I could feel this full without it being heavy. For the first time in a long time, there’s no pressure, no expectation to twist this into something else. Just connection, pure and uncomplicated, like turning over a card and finding exactly what you need.

We don’t make a plan so much as we text each other the same idea. Two days after the ramen, he shows up at my apartment with a canvas tote that says Scream Queen on it and the kind of excitement you bring to a concert. I’ve dragged my couch closer to the TV. My coffee table is buried in bowls—popcorn dusted with seaweed, gummy worms, black-and-white frosted cookies I found at the bakery around the corner, a weird green punch I dubbed Lagoon Water that looks suspect and tastes like lime. He takes it all in and laughs, thoughtful, like he gets that I did this because it matters to me.

“Okay, first,” he says, pulling out a Blu‑ray like it’s a magician’s reveal. “Creature. Then Mothra. Then we see where the night takes us.”

“You say that like we’re clubbing,” I say, taking the case from him and feeling a little flutter at how ordinary this is. He toes off his shoes without being asked. He doesn’t comment on my mismatched socks or the fact that I put a blanket out like a grandma.

He sits at one end of the couch, leaving a question mark of space. I tug the blanket over both our knees anyway, like it’s nothing. It feels easy. I press play.

We don’t talk over the opening credits. He doesn’t narrate to prove he knows trivia. I don’t fill the quiet with jokes to keep things light. It’s just the sound of water and strings and the creature’s heavy breath. Every so often, he passes me a gummy worm without looking. Our fingers brush, and my brain notes it, then shelves it. His thigh is warm through the blanket. I let my head tip back on the cushion and breathe.

When the scuba scene comes on—the one that always makes my chest feel tight—he leans forward, elbows on knees, like he’s seeing it for the first time even though he’s not. I say, “This is the part,” and he nods like he knows which part I mean. He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t make me explain how the longing in a monster’s gaze can feel like a mirror. The room is quiet in a way that feels chosen.

Halfway through, he reaches for the Lagoon Water and grimaces. “It’s so aggressively lime.”

“I added gummy fish and now it’s a craft cocktail,” I say, and he sips again, committed to the bit. He lets sugar stick to his lip. I hand him a napkin, and our fingers tangle longer than they need to. Neither of us points it out.

We break between movies to inhale popcorn and make a second snack plate. He moves around my kitchen like it’s a place he’s been before, opening the right drawer on the first try. He washes the mixing bowl without being asked. “You have a very organized spoon situation,” he says.

“Are you negging my utensil drawer?” I ask, bumping his hip with mine. He bumps back, gentle, like he’s learned my edges already.

When I tell him that the Mothra twins were my favorite because they made me feel less alone as a weird kid, he doesn’t tease. He tells me about building the cereal box Tokyo, and we end up perched on my counter, feet swinging, sharing the embarrassing art we made like it’s precious, not cringe. He looks at me when I talk, not past me. I don’t worry about how I look from his angle, if my mouth does that thing when I get animated. I just… am.

Back on the couch, our shoulders settle closer. I realize I haven’t checked my phone all night. I haven’t done that mental calculus of when to laugh, when to flirt, when to withhold. He laughs and claps a hand over his mouth and then lets it fall because he doesn’t need to be smaller. I let myself sprawl, socked feet tucked under his thigh. He doesn’t make it a thing. He just warms.

By the time the tiny singers appear, we’re both grinning like idiots, mouthing along to lyrics we only half remember. He sings the melody under his breath—off-key, earnest. My chest feels loose and open. When he looks over and catches me smiling at him instead of the screen, he smiles back, small and sure, and doesn’t look away too fast like he’s afraid of what it means.

We don’t kiss. We don’t do anything that would tip it into a different category. We sit through credits we’ve both seen and then let the menu loop because leaving the moment would mean naming it. He helps me stack plates. He threads his arm into his jacket and lingers at the door, like ending something this good should be done slowly. I want to say stay. I don’t. It’s nice that I don’t have to.

“Same time next monster?” he asks.

“Obviously,” I say, and it feels like choosing the easy thing for once. When the door closes, the room is quiet. I glance at my phone out of habit and realize I didn’t need it to make the night bearable. I didn’t have to distract myself with a game. I just let myself be in my own skin, with him sitting there, and it was enough.

Two days later, my living room looks like a hardware store exploded. The box with the bookshelf has been a coffee table for months. Alex stands over it reading the instruction manual like it’s a sacred text, brow furrowed, mouth tilted in concentration. He rolled up his sleeves as soon as he walked in, and there’s something about forearms and purpose that shouldn’t be as distracting as it is.

“Phase one: we don’t die,” he says, tapping the page. “Phase two: we build your book empire.”

“Phase three: you carry it with one arm to show off,” I say, opening a bag of screws and immediately spilling three.

He catches them. Actually catches them, quick and easy. “Reflexes of a cat,” he says, dropping them back into my palm, warm fingertips against my skin for a second too long. He steps back before I can overthink it, kneeling to lay out planks. He sorts them by size, letter side up, his movements efficient, unshowy. It’s not performative competence. He just knows how to do stuff and does it without making me feel incompetent.

“You’ve done this before,” I say, watching him line up dowels along the edge of a board.

“I moonlight as an Allen key whisperer,” he says. “Also my sister moved three times in two years. I’ve assembled the same dresser so often I’ve given the parts names.”

He hands me the bag of wooden pegs and nods toward the holes he’s already measured. “You want to do those? Every other one.”

I sit cross-legged on the rug and press the pegs in, my knee bumping his. He glances at me, then keeps going, bracing a side panel between his sneaker and a stack of books. He hums under his breath. I recognize the Mothra song and bite down on a smile.

“Level?” he asks, holding a shelf while I squint at the tiny bubble on the tool.

“Decent,” I say. He adjusts a millimeter. “Better.”

He grins. “Decent to better with minimal drama. Look at us.”

We fall into a rhythm. He drills pilot holes without cracking the veneer. I follow with screws, turning my wrist in careful, even motions. He notices when I’m struggling but doesn’t take over. He moves closer instead, steadying the board with his palm, his body heat at my side. Sawdust clings to the hair on his forearm. I want to brush it off. I don’t.

“Screwdriver?” he says, holding out his hand without looking. I pass it. Our fingers slip along the same stripe of cool metal. When his skin touches mine, the sensation is immediate—a warm, bright flicker that shoots up my arm, quick and sharp, like stepping into sunlight. My breath hitches and I pretend it’s because I’m balancing a shelf.

He doesn’t react. He’s focused, leaning in to tighten the bracket with a calm strength that makes the muscles in his forearm tighten. I swallow, drop my gaze back to the instructions, and file the feeling under static electricity, or maybe under you haven’t touched anyone in a while and your nervous system is dramatic.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing at me.

“Yeah,” I say too fast. “Just reading step… twelve B. It’s really narrative.”

He smirks. “Character development for the screws.”

We both laugh, a little too loud. The moment passes. We keep building. He checks for wobble by rocking the frame with his knee, then fixes it with a small adjustment I wouldn’t have thought to make. He doesn’t brag. He just nods, satisfied, and it hits me again—that quiet competence is unfairly attractive.

He wipes his hands on his jeans and looks up at me from where he’s kneeling. “Ready for the big flip?”

“Is that a dance move?” I ask.

He grins. “Always,” he says, and we count to three and lift the frame together. His fingers press into the wood inches from mine. My palms are sweaty. It’s fine. It’s fine.

We settle it upright against the wall, both stepping back at the same time. The shelf stands, tall and even, waiting for weight. He exhales like he’s been holding something and smiles at me, open and proud.

“We did it,” he says.

“We are gods,” I say, maybe more breathless than a shelf deserves.

He leans to tighten one last screw at the base. “Almost,” he murmurs, then sits back on his heels and offers his hand without thinking. I take it. He pulls me up, steady and sure, and our palms slide against each other, warm. The spark is there again, a quick pulse under my skin. I tuck it away, neat and small, and reach for a stack of books.

The next afternoon, I sit across from a man named Lucas who introduced himself by handing me a business card for his personal brand. He’s the kind of guy who leans back with one arm sprawled on the banquette like he’s staking a claim to the entire coffee shop. He’s telling me about his morning routine in minute detail, which involves something called “mouth taping” and also, inexplicably, jump rope with weighted handles.

I sip my latte and make an encouraging face because I’m polite when trapped. My phone vibrates on my thigh. I don’t have to look to know who it is, but I do anyway.

Alex: Did you end up going? Or did you fake your own death?

Me: I’m present in body. My soul left during the phrase “biohacking my circadian rhythm.”

I glance up. Lucas is describing his water filtration system. He says words like alkalinity like they’re proof he’s interesting.

Me: He brought a travel water filter. It looks like a grenade.

Alex: Please tell me it hisses.

Me: It gurgles ominously. He’s cradling it like a pet.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. Lucas is now walking me through his macros, which I didn’t ask about. He mentions that he doesn’t drink caffeine after 10 a.m., which is tragic because it’s 3 p.m. and he’s sipping decaf like a martyr.

“Do you have any allergies?” he asks abruptly, like he just remembered I’m here.

“Cats,” I say, because it’s true, and also because I’m allergic to this conversation.

“Ah,” he says, nodding gravely. “I’m a dog person.” He then pulls up photos of a dog he fosters but hasn’t committed to because he travels “for mindset retreats.”

My phone buzzes again.

Alex: Are you safe? Blink twice if he’s explained cryptocurrency.

Me: He’s getting there. He said “portfolio” like four times.

Alex: I’ll keep the line open. Remember your code word: Mothra.

I snort into my latte and cover it with a cough. Lucas smiles like he’s charmed himself. “So, what do you do for workouts?” he asks.

“I walk to my kitchen for snacks,” I say. He doesn’t laugh. He nods like he’s going to optimize that.

He tells me about his ex, then insists he never talks about his ex. He asks me one question about my job and interrupts my answer to say he prefers to work for himself because he can’t do “bureaucracy.” He says the word like it’s a disease.

Me: He just said he’s an “ideas guy.”

Alex: Oh no.

Me: He has a whiteboard where he writes “hustle” in all caps.

Alex: I’m coming in hot with a fake emergency—should I be your plumber? Your bookshelf has a leak.

Me: Tempting.

Lucas shows me a graph on his phone that represents his sleep quality and somehow also his personal growth. There’s a jagged line. He points at a dip like it was a betrayal. His hands are manicured and he keeps brushing crumbs off the table like they offend him.

“Do you meditate?” he asks.

“I tried once and fell asleep,” I say.

“You’re not doing it right,” he says immediately.

My chest tightens. Not because he’s a monster—he’s not. He’s just not for me. I look at his mouth moving and think about Alex handing me a screwdriver and letting me take the lead. I think about the way he laughed under his breath when he realized he hummed the Mothra song without noticing. I think about how easy it felt to just exist next to him without having to defend my methods for breathing.

I glance at the time. “Shoot,” I say, putting a hand to my bag like I forgot something important. “I just remembered I told my neighbor I’d—uh—let her dog out. She’s stuck at work.” My lie is so flimsy I cringe at myself, but Lucas only nods, already typing something into his phone, probably tracking this interruption on an app.

“No worries,” he says. “We should do this again. I want to tell you about my cold plunge.”

“Maybe,” I say, which is honest in the way that means no.

Outside, the air feels lighter. I pull my phone out and type fast.

Me: Operation Exit Successful. I blamed a fictional dog.

Alex: Heroic rescue. Does the dog have a name?

Me: Sir Waggington.

Alex: Strong choice. Do you want to come over later? I have leftover takeout and a documentary about stop-motion monsters that looks terrible in a good way.

I slow to a stop on the sidewalk. The answer is too easy. It sits in my chest without any friction.

Me: Yes. Please.

Alex: I’ll heat up the lo mein. And I promise not to talk about my macros unless they’re the pasta kind.

I laugh out loud, alone on the corner. I didn’t realize how much energy I’ve spent trying to make bad conversations feel meaningful. With Alex, I don’t have to do that. I put my phone away and head toward the train, relief settling over me like a blanket, warm and simple. I’m not pretending. I’m choosing. And I know exactly where I want to be.

The street festival spills down three blocks like someone shook a glitter jar over the city. Lanterns sway between food trucks. Kids streak past with faces painted like tigers. A band on a makeshift stage crashes into a cover of something we both know but don’t admit we know. Alex shows up with a paper boat of fried dough and powdered sugar dusted across his cheek like he kissed a snowstorm. I reach up without thinking and wipe it off with my thumb.

His eyes flick to my mouth, then away. He clears his throat. “I was saving that.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, and my voice is a little softer than it should be.

We flow into the crowd shoulder to shoulder. Every few steps, his hand finds the small of my back to steer me around a stroller or a cluster of teenagers. It’s casual, light, but I feel the heat of it like a stamp. He hands me a piece of fried dough and I tear off a corner with my teeth. He watches like the act of me eating is suddenly interesting in a way food never is for him. He licks sugar off his finger. I track the motion with a focus I want to blame on the lights.

“Target acquired,” he says, nodding toward a game booth where a woman with a megaphone is calling people out. The prizes are a forest of stuffed animals, and in the middle hangs the ugliest, brightest octopus I’ve ever seen. It’s neon green with googly eyes that don’t look in the same direction. It’s perfect.

“You can’t possibly need that,” I say, already smiling.

“I don’t,” he says. “You do.” He grins, ears a little red, and pays for three balls.

He winds up the first like he’s pitching in slow motion. He misses by a mile and bows to his disappointed audience of two teenagers. The second one kisses the rim and bounces out. He groans. He looks at me like he needs the belief I never had to perform with him. I lean in and whisper, “Think Mothra.”

He laughs and lines up the last throw. The ball sinks with a neat plunk. The woman hits a cowbell and the teenagers clap halfheartedly. Alex points at the hideous octopus. “That one.”

He turns and sets it into my arms with fake ceremony. It’s huge and ridiculous, its tentacles draping around my shoulders like a hug. I can’t see my feet. I feel twelve and also suddenly, stupidly, seen. “I’ll carry it,” he offers, and when I protest, he threads his fingers through two of the tentacles and tucks it behind us like a third friend trailing along.

We squeeze back into the press of bodies, closer now by necessity. His hand finds mine without warning, just a brush at first, then a deliberate slide of his fingers between mine. It’s instinct to look up at his face. He’s watching me, waiting to see if I’ll pull away. I don’t. The heat is immediate, a low thrum that settles in my belly. The world narrows to the places we touch.

We stop at a stall where an old man is torching sugar over cut fruit. Alex leans down, his mouth close to my ear to be heard. “You good?”

The question is simple. It lands like a promise. I nod. “Yeah.” My voice wavers. He squeezes my hand once and doesn’t let go.

We walk like that, skirting puddles from the mister fans, winding past henna artists and a table selling earrings shaped like tiny ghosts. Every time he guides me, his palm is warm at my back. I can feel the exact points of contact hours before they’re gone. He buys me a lemonade and drinks from the other side of the cup. Our mouths almost meet on plastic. I swallow, and he watches my throat, and there’s understanding in his gaze that wasn’t there a week ago.

We find a quiet strip near the ferris wheel line where the music softens under the creak of metal and the hum of the generator. The octopus leans against Alex’s leg like a drunken buddy. He tips his head toward the wheel. “Ride with me?”

I nod and my chest tightens, not with dread, but with anticipation that feels like standing on a diving board. We step into the line, still hand in hand. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, slow, absentminded, like he’s memorizing me. The giant spokes of the wheel catch the last light. Below us, the crowd keeps moving, but here, between the sounds and the heat, everything shifts one quiet degree closer.

We clamber into a metal car that rocks a little under our weight. The operator swings the bar down, and Alex adjusts so his thigh is pressed against mine. Heat floods through the thin denim. The octopus ends up sprawled across our laps like a seatbelt with googly eyes. When the wheel lurches, my hand tightens around his without thinking.

He glances at our fingers and back up to me. “I haven’t been on one of these since high school,” he says, voice low, like the air here asks for softness.

“What happened in high school?” I ask, and the car lifts, the festival shrinking below us into lights and movement.

“I got stuck at the top,” he says, eyes on the city. “For twenty minutes. With a girl who cried the whole time. I tried to make shadow puppets with the lights on my hands. It did not help.”

I laugh, the sound pulled out of me. “You would try to make shadow puppets.”

“I’m predictable,” he says, smiling. Then it fades a little. “I think about that sometimes. Not the crying. The stuck. How I’m okay if I can see the ground move. I just don’t like feeling trapped.”

The word hangs between us, larger than the car. The wind brushes my hair across my cheek. I tuck it behind my ear. “Me either,” I admit. “With people. With… expectations.” I stare out at the booths, the string lights, the tiny figures weaving. “It’s easier to keep things light. If I don’t put weight on something, it can’t crush me.”

His thumb strokes along the curve of my hand, slow. “Has anything ever crushed you?” he asks. His voice is gentle, not probing.

“Yeah,” I say, letting the truth be simple. “I dated someone who was always almost there. He liked the parts of me he could show off. The rest, he tried to sand down. I started doing it for him. I didn’t even notice until I was quiet all the time.”

He exhales. “I hate that.” He looks out at the horizon, his jaw set. “I did the opposite. I stayed too long in something that was safe. We were polite. We didn’t say hard things. And then one day it was like waking up and realizing I’d been whispering for a year.”

We rise again, past the middle, into the space where the wind feels different. The city is opening below us, windows blinking on like a slow inhale. The sun is sliding down, painting everything in that almost-night color that makes skin look unreal. I study his profile—the straight bridge of his nose, the curve of his mouth, the way his lashes cut a clean line in the last light. He’s so close I can see the faint freckle near his ear. His hand is warm, his knee pressed to mine, his scent clean and a little like citrus.

“Do you ever worry you’ll mess this up?” I ask, and my voice scrapes a little, like I’m surprised by my own honesty.

“All the time,” he says, immediate. He turns to face me fully. The car rocks, and he steadies us with a palm on the bar. “I’m afraid of wanting too much. Of pushing. Of… reading into things because I want them to be there.”

I swallow. My heart is pounding in a way I don’t try to hide. “What do you want?”

He looks at our hands. His throat moves. When he lifts his eyes, they’re steady. “You,” he says. “But I want you to feel safe wanting me back. I don’t want to be another thing that asks you to be smaller.”

The wheel pauses. We’re at the top. Everything below is sound and blur; up here, the air is quiet. The city stretches in every direction, glittering. The car sways gently, and for a second, it feels like the world is holding its breath with us.

I look at him. The truth hits like a clean break, sharp and bright and impossible to ignore. It’s not a crush twisting hope into fantasy. It’s not the giddy distraction I use to pass time. It’s the way my body knows his touch before my brain catches up. It’s how my chest unclenches when he’s near. It’s the pull I’ve been pretending was convenience because love has always felt like a trap I didn’t trust myself in.

I’m falling. For his stupid jokes and his careful hands and the way he listens like every word matters. For the way he looks at me like I’m already enough. My pulse thunders, and it’s not fear. It’s recognition.

He’s watching me, searching my face for a sign, for an exit or an invitation. The wind lifts a curl against his forehead. I lift my free hand and smooth it back, my fingers lingering at his temple. His eyes close for a beat, like the touch settles something in him. When they open, the question is right there.

I don’t answer it yet. I just breathe him in, the space small and safe, the world falling away. We hover, suspended, and all I can think is yes. Yes. Yes.

By the time we reach my building, the neon from the festival has melted into the quiet glow of streetlights. We don’t talk much on the walk. Our hands stay linked until we reach the stoop, and then we both let go like it’s something we agreed on without speaking.

At my door, he rocks back on his heels and looks at me with that gentle, steady focus that makes me feel peeled open. The octopus is wedged under his arm, stupid and bright even in the hallway. We both laugh at it in the same breath, and then the sound disappears and the air tightens.

“I should get out of your hair,” he says, voice low, like we might wake the neighbors if we’re careless. He tips his head toward the street. “Big day of very important octopus babysitting tomorrow.”

I nod and my fingers fumble on my keys. The teeth scrape the lock, and I look up at him because avoiding it is worse. His gaze finds mine and holds. It’s not hungry. It’s patient. It undoes me more than anything else.

“Stay,” I say, the word showing up without permission. My throat is dry. “Just… for a minute.”

His jaw flexes. He breathes out like he’s been holding it for an hour. “Are you sure?”

I am, in the exact way that terrifies me and steadies me at the same time. “Yeah.”

He steps in before I can think about it too hard. The octopus gets dumped unceremoniously by the door, eyes askew, guarding nothing. He’s careful with his hands at first, one sliding to my hip, the other braced near my shoulder against the wall, giving me space to change my mind. I don’t. I move into him like I’ve been leaning toward this for weeks.

His mouth finds mine on a slow exhale. The kiss isn’t rushed. It’s deliberate, questions layered into the press of his lips. I answer by opening to him, my tongue meeting his with a soft, needy sweep that makes something low in my belly tighten. He tastes like sugar and lemonade. He makes a sound in his throat that vibrates against my mouth and wakes up every nerve in my skin.

I grip the front of his shirt, pulling him closer until our bodies align. His chest is solid against mine. His thigh fits between my legs when I shift, and heat blooms there, immediate and pulsing. He feathers kisses along my upper lip, my cheek, the corner of my mouth, like he’s mapping me, committing me to memory. It’s tender and makes me ache.

“Tell me if you want to slow down,” he murmurs, his breath skimming my jaw. His fingers slide under the hem of my top, resting against my waist, not pushing, just holding. The simple weight of his hand is dizzying. My skin prickles, nipples tightening against cotton, and I arch into his touch without thinking.

“I don’t,” I say. It comes out rougher than I expect. Honest. He shudders and kisses me again, deeper, his tongue stroking mine, coaxing, learning. One of his hands finds the back of my neck and his thumb rubs a slow circle there that makes my knees weak.

I press him into the wall and he lets me, his smile curving against my mouth like he likes me like this—decisive, greedy. I trail my fingers to the edge of his jaw, rough with stubble, then lower, feeling the steady thump of his pulse. He’s hard against my hip now, undeniable. The knowledge sends a thrill through me that borders on power and surrender.

He cups my face and leans back just enough to look at me. His pupils are blown, his lips kiss-swollen. “Jing,” he says, a warning and a prayer.

I answer him by kissing the hollow of his throat, the salt-warm skin there, and he exhales sharply, his hands flexing on my waist. My body climbs toward his like it’s been on a path and has finally arrived. The tension that’s threaded through every joke and shared meal sharpens and softens at the same time, breaking open into something real.

His mouth returns to mine, and the kiss turns searching, an exchange that feels like a dozen late-night conversations condensed into heat and breath. He slides his palm up my back, under my bra strap, fingers splayed, and I gasp into him, my hips rolling once, slow and instinctive. He groans, the sound low and helpless, and I swallow it, greedy for all of it, for the way he’s not pretending this is anything but exactly what it is.

We pause only because breathing becomes necessary. Our foreheads touch. His thumb traces the line of my lower lip, swollen and slick. I lick him there, a soft, teasing flick, and his eyes go dark.

“Stay,” I whisper, not a question now. It’s a choice we’re both already making. The hall is quiet. The world narrows to the small, charged space between our mouths, and then he erases it again, kissing me like an answer he’s been holding in his pocket, finally unfolded.

Sun drips around the edges of my blinds, too bright for how little sleep I got. My lips are tender, my body humming like it remembers every place he touched, even though we didn’t go further than kissing, even though I wanted to. The octopus is sprawled on my living room floor like a crime scene. My mouth curls thinking about it and then I wince because my mouth remembers him.

There’s a soft knock. Not the door—my bedroom door. “Jing?” His voice is low, tentative. “I can go get coffee. Or I can leave and text you. Whatever you want.”

I sit up too fast. “No. Don’t leave.” My hair is a mess. My heart is worse. I pull on a sweatshirt and open the door.

He’s leaning against the hallway wall in his T-shirt, hair smashed on one side from my pillow, holding his shoes like he’s afraid to make noise. When he looks at me, it’s not the casual friend-look I’m used to. It’s careful. It’s warm. It’s terrified.

“I can make coffee,” I say, because it keeps my hands busy and because it’s something we’ve always done without thinking. We fall into the kitchen dance, but everything is louder. His shoulder brushes mine when he reaches for mugs and my stomach flips. He stands close enough that the heat from his body is a second appliance.

“I, um,” he starts when the kettle hisses. “About last night.”

I swallow. “Yeah. About last night.”

He looks at me like he’s bracing for a verdict. “I meant it,” he says. “All of it. I didn’t sleep much because every time I closed my eyes I could feel you. And that’s—amazing. And also I’m terrified of messing up what we have. You’re my favorite person. I don’t want to be stupid and rush us and then…” He makes a helpless motion, like something falling out of his hands.

I pour water over the grounds. “Me too. On the terrified part. And the not-sleeping part.” I glance at him. My throat tightens. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you for a while. I just pretended it was easier to keep it light. It was a lie.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping. “Okay,” he says softly. “Okay.”

We stand there with the smell of coffee filling the small kitchen, the truth between us like a third mug we’re both cradling. He moves closer, slow. His fingers toy with the hem of my sweatshirt, not pushing, asking.

“I want you,” I say, before I can overthink. “I also want… us. The friendship. The ramen, the monster marathons, the way you fix my broken shelf without judging me.” I take a breath. “I don’t want to lose that because we were reckless.”

His hand finds my waist, light. “Then we don’t be reckless,” he says. “We make rules. We try this on purpose.”

“Like a real date,” I say. The words land and my body answers with a thrill that has nothing to do with caffeine. “One official date. If it feels wrong, we recalibrate. If it feels right…” My smile is shaky. “We’ll figure out the rules as we go.”

He grins, small and sincere. “A date. I can do that.” He leans in, pauses. “Can I kiss you good morning? Is that allowed before the official date?”

I nod. His mouth touches mine, gentle, a press that’s more hello than hunger. Even that makes my skin light up. He tastes like sleep and toothpaste. He pulls back first, like he’s proving a point to both of us. My body wants more. My heart does too, but it also settles.

“Tonight?” he suggests, voice low but steady. “I’ll pick you up. Nothing fancy unless you want fancy. I just want us in a place where it’s clear what we’re doing.”

“Tonight,” I agree. “And coffee now. Because I might pass out and miss it.”

He laughs, and the sound loosens something in my chest. He takes a mug and we stand shoulder to shoulder, sipping, letting the quiet say what we can’t without crowding it. His pinky hooks mine on the counter, a little tether. The fear is still there, but it’s not as loud with his skin against mine and the promise of tonight hanging in the air like a steady note.

The club is all shadow and brass, low lights pooled like honey on the tabletops. He’s already there when I walk in, standing from a small round table near the stage. He’s in a dark button-down I’ve never seen, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair trying to behave and failing in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Hi,” he says, and the way he looks at me—like I’m new and familiar at once—lands low in my stomach.

“Hi,” I echo, and he pulls out my chair, his hand brushing the bare skin behind my knee as I sit. The touch is nothing, everything. Warmth skates up my thigh and lingers.

A trio starts up on stage, a trumpet leading, the bass player smiling like a secret. Conversation hums around us, soft and intimate. Alex leans in so I can hear him, his mouth near my ear. “I promise not to spill anything on you tonight.”

I angle my face toward him. “Shame. I wore waterproof mascara.”

His grin flashes. He orders us an old fashioned and a gin and tonic, his knee bumping mine under the table and staying there. When the drinks arrive, we clink glasses, and the first sip slides down warm and brave. He watches my mouth and then looks away like he’s trying to be good.

“You look… really beautiful,” he says after a beat, quiet like it’s just for me.

The compliment hits deeper than it should. “You clean up too,” I say, letting my fingers trace the cuff of his sleeve. The tendon in his wrist moves. He swallows, and I feel it like a tug.

We fall into our usual rhythm—teasing, quick jokes, a dumb argument about which monster would dominate in a jazz-off—but every laugh stretches a wire between us tighter. He shifts closer to say something over a swell of music, his breath warm at my temple. His hand lands on my thigh under the table, just above my knee, thumb stroking once, slow. He doesn’t push it higher. He doesn’t need to. Heat blooms and spreads, settling as a low throb.

I cover his hand with mine, lacing our fingers. He flips his palm to tangle us better, squeezes, and my body answers with a yes that makes me bite my lip. He glances down and then up at me, eyes dark.

Onstage, the singer croons something about wanting and waiting. Alex shifts, his thigh pressing into mine. He leans in, voice barely there. “This place okay?”

“It’s perfect,” I say, and mean it. The intimacy of the room folds around us like a permission slip.

We talk about the day—his boss who says “circle back” too much, my coworker who labels her lunch “Do Not Eat” with skull emojis. Every time he laughs, his fingertips flex against me. I start to tell a story and lose my place when his thumb tracks slow patterns on my skin. He notices, eyes flicking to my mouth, and the smallest smile tilts his lip like he likes that he can make me forget my point.

In a quiet break between songs, he lifts my hand and kisses the inside of my wrist. It’s nothing I’ve ever had done to me, and it undoes me. My pulse jumps beneath his mouth. He lingers there, breath feathering, and when he looks up, I feel laid open—seen and wanted in a way that’s careful and sure.

“Alex,” I murmur, a warning and an invitation. He threads our hands again and sets them on my thigh, both of us holding, both of us responsible for this slow burn.

We don’t kiss. We don’t need to. The music fills the spaces where our mouths might have gone. When he leans back to watch the trumpet solo, he keeps our joined hands anchored on my skin, his pinky tracing idle lines. I tip my head to his shoulder for a beat, and he turns to press his mouth to my hair, a soft, absentminded kiss that tells my body we’re not playing at this.

By the time the lights dim further for the last set, I’m warm from the drink and warmer from him. He whispers some joke about the bass player and I laugh against his jaw. He turns, and our noses brush. We both still, breath mingling, the pause charged. He doesn’t close the distance. He just touches his forehead to mine for a second, a promise loaded into a sigh.

The final song swells, low and sweet. His hand slides a fraction higher on my thigh, testing, then settles again. I exhale shakily and squeeze his fingers. We sit like that, linked and listening, holding ourselves together with willpower and the knowledge that there’s a door outside this room we’ll walk through, where the night doesn’t have to end on a note.

We barely talk on the ride to his place. His hand rests on my thigh the whole way, a silent anchor. In the elevator, we face forward like strangers while our knuckles brush and burn. When his door clicks shut behind us, the quiet changes shape. He drops his keys on the counter and turns to me like he’s been holding his breath since the club.

“Hi,” he says, even though he said it hours ago.

“Hi.” My voice comes out thinner, full of nerves I don’t want to hide. He sees it. He always sees it.

“Come here,” he says softly, not pulling, just opening his arms. I step into them because I want to, not because I’m supposed to. His chest is warm against my cheek. He holds me like he means to steady us both.

We stand like that until my body relaxes. Then I tilt my head back and his mouth is there, patient at first. A slow kiss. Then another, deeper. He tastes like orange peel from my drink and something that’s just him. His tongue slides against mine and heat flashes through me, low and insistent. He walks us backward to the sofa, guiding me down without breaking the kiss. My legs fall open to make room for him between my thighs.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says against my mouth, breathless.

“I’ll tell you,” I promise, fingers already in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Don’t stop yet.”

We kiss until my lips feel swollen and he’s making these quiet sounds in his throat that go straight to my hips. His hands stay respectful at my waist until I tug one up under my shirt. His palm meets bare skin and we both inhale. He drags his hand up my ribs like he’s learning me by touch. When his thumb brushes the side of my breast, my back arches in a reflex I can’t control.

“Okay?” he asks, eyes dark, pupils blown.

“Yes.” I grab his wrist and press him fully to me. He cups me through my bra, thumb circling until my nipple tightens beneath the fabric. Sensation shoots through me so fast I gasp. He swallows the sound with his mouth, working me with careful pressure, switching to the other side, patient and thorough like he’s cataloging every twitch.

I push at his shirt until he sits up to pull it over his head. I run my hands over his chest, the smooth heat, the firm lines I’ve pretended not to notice for months. He shivers when my nails graze down his stomach. “You’re so beautiful,” I say, surprised at myself and not sorry.

He huffs out a laugh that dies when I tug him back down. I roll my hips under him. He curses softly into my neck, hips answering, the hardness in his jeans pressing where I’m already aching. The friction steals my breath. I catch it again and grind up, greedy. His hand slides under my skirt, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear. He pauses. “Tell me.”

“I want your hand,” I say, the honesty making my face hot. “Please.”

He slips his fingers under the thin fabric, the first touch achingly light. I’m slick, my body ready for him, and he groans like he’s the one being touched. He explores me with care before finding my clitoris, circling slowly, letting me adjust. The pleasure builds in waves, not sharp, just steady and sure. I clutch at his shoulders, panting into his mouth, then breaking the kiss because I need air.

“Like that?” he asks, eyes on my face, like my expression is the map he’s using.

“Yes. Don’t stop.” My thighs tense around him. He keeps the same rhythm, adding a little pressure, and my body climbs toward something that feels inevitable.

I want more of him, so I let my hand slide down between us. He catches my wrist, a question in his gaze. I nod, and he lets me. I unbutton his jeans and slip my hand inside, fingers wrapping around him. He’s thick and hot under my palm. His hips jerk into my hand like a reflex he didn’t mean to show me. He buries his face against my neck, teeth catching on my skin as I stroke him, slow to match the rhythm of his fingers. There’s sweat at his temples. He whispers my name like it’s helping him hold on.

The sofa creaks as we move against each other, hands working, breath stuttering. It feels messy and perfect. It feels like something we’ve both wanted and were too careful to name. He kisses me again, sucking my bottom lip into his mouth, and my body surges. The pleasure crests, tight and bright, spilling through me in pulses. I gasp, clutching him as it hits, shaking, my hand faltering on him as I ride it out.

He slows his fingers, easing me down, kissing my cheek, my jaw, murmuring yes and good in a shaky voice that makes my heart kick. When I can think again, I tighten my grip on him, speeding up, twisting my wrist like I know he’ll like. He sucks in a breath, eyes squeezing shut. “Jing—wait—” His hand flies to my wrist, not stopping me, just grounding.

“You can let go,” I say, watching his face.

He opens his eyes, finds me there, and something breaks loose: trust, restraint, both. He thrusts into my hand, his mouth open on a silent sound. I keep the rhythm until he jerks, coming with a rough moan into my shoulder. I love the weight of him pressing me down, the way he clutches me like he’s afraid to float away.

We lie there tangled, panting, his forehead pressed to mine. His chest heaves against my arm. I stroke the back of his neck until his breathing evens out. He laughs once, low and incredulous. “We’re really doing this,” he says, not a question.

“We are,” I whisper, suddenly shy, suddenly brave. He kisses me, soft this time, comfort and promise in it. He reaches down and pulls my skirt back into place, a small, careful gesture that makes my throat get tight.

“Stay?” he asks, thumb brushing my cheekbone.

“I was hoping you’d ask.” He smiles, relief loosening the edges of him. He tucks me into his side, my leg over his, my hand splayed on his stomach where his heart pounds against my palm. The room is quiet except for our breathing and the steady hum of something new settling between us. We don’t rush to name it. We don’t need to. We breathe and hold each other, warm and open, on the edge of whatever comes next.