44

I've jumped out of a plane.

Twice.

I've given a speech in front of 400 alumni at my dad's fundraiser with a mic that died halfway through.

I've dissected a frog in Bio and accidentally punctured its gallbladder.

I have never been this nervous in my life.

She's standing by her locker.

Sketchbook half-tucked into her arm, lip gloss slightly smudged, smiling at something Bear texted her.

And I'm just... standing here.

Like an NPC waiting for the courage stat to load.

"Just say it," I mutter to myself.

"Say what?"

I jump.

She's looking at me now.

One eyebrow raised.

Mango-sweet lipgloss shimmering.

Soul leaving my body.

"Hi," I blurt.

"Hi."

She tilts her head, amused. "You okay?"

No.

Not even slightly.

I scratch the back of my neck.

Try to look casual.

I do not look casual.

I look like I'm about to confess to a federal crime.

"So, I've been thinking... I mean. Not like, thinking thinking, but like-thinking-in-a-normal-not-insane-way."

She blinks.

I groan.

"Let me start over."

I take a breath.

Look directly at her.

And panic in the softest, most affection-drunk way possible.

"Would you maybe wanna go on a date with me?"

"Like a real one. Just us. No Legos. No Nerf guns. No brothers trying to duel me with plastic swords."

She blinks again.

This time... slower.

"Luca."

"It's fine if you don't want to. I mean, I know we kind of already do stuff together, but I thought maybe if I put a name on it, it'd be like-like official? Like a date-date. Unless that's weird. Is that weird?"

I'm spiraling.

She's smiling.

"Where would we go?" she asks, voice soft, eyes dancing.

My brain forgets English for a second.

"Anywhere. We could eat pancakes at a gas station and I'd still show up in a button-down."

She laughs.

God, I love that sound.

"A button-down?"

"With a tie. And cologne. Fancy cologne."

"Gas station pancakes and Gucci cologne?"

"I contain multitudes."

She closes her locker.

Steps a little closer.

Her eyes are warm.

Bright.

She smells like mangoes and something sweeter I can't name.

"Okay," she says.

"Okay?"

"I'll go on a date with you."

"Okay," I say again, like a broken record.

She grins.

"But I'm picking the place."

"Deal," I say, definitely about to text Emory and scream into the void.

As she walks away, she turns, pinky waving in the air.

"And wear the cologne. You promised."

I lean against the wall.

Heart pounding.

Face burning.

Grinning like a complete idiot.

------------------------------------------------------------

I look like I'm going to prom.

Like... prom. In Milan.

I'm wearing a slate button-down, black trousers, my good shoes, and the cologne my mom bought me for "formal occasions."

This? This is formal.

She said yes.

To me.

I stand outside the run-down gas station with a flickering neon sign and a hand-painted banner that literally says:

"Benny's Pancake Paradise - No Health Code, Just Love"

And I wait.

Trying not to sweat through my shirt.

Trying not to Google "can you die from nerves?"

Then I see her.

And-

I almost forget how walking works.

She's in a grey hoodie, jeans, and pink Converse. Her hair's loose, curls bouncing as she walks, and she's smiling at her phone like she's reading something funny.

My heart actually trips.

Like, physically stumbles.

"Wow," she says, when she sees me. "You look like you're about to propose."

"That's bold of you to assume I'm not."

"Luca."

"I panicked. You said cologne."

"I said pancakes."

"You didn't specify a dress code."

She giggles.

I almost drop dead on the spot.

We walk inside, and I swear to God, it smells like syrup, cinnamon, and possibly expired hope.

There are five tables, a jukebox that only plays ABBA, and a guy behind the counter wearing a cowboy hat that says "Flippin' Since '96."

Senna picks the booth near the window. I follow, sliding in across from her like this is normal.

Like I'm not absolutely short-circuiting under her gaze.

We order pancakes the size of dinner plates.

She gets strawberry.

I get blueberry.

We both get extra syrup because we're reckless and wild now.

And then it happens.

That thing that always happens with her.

The world gets quiet.

Even when it's not.

And suddenly, it's just... us.

"So," she says, dragging her fork through whipped cream. "This your first date in a gas station?"

"Shockingly, yes."

"You nervous?"

"No."

I'm lying.

She knows.

I blush.

"You're cute when you lie," she says casually, sipping her orange juice like she didn't just end me in four words.

We talk.

We laugh.

She tells me about Bear's weird obsession with raccoons and Auggie's plan to marry his preschool teacher.

I tell her how Emory dared me to eat a spoonful of caviar once and I cried.

She snorts. Like, actual full-body giggle.

I win.

At some point, she reaches across the table for the syrup and her fingers brush mine.

And I-

I don't move.

Neither does she.

It's soft. And awkward. And perfect.

"I like you," I say, quietly, before I can stop myself.

She looks up. Eyes wide.

"A lot," I add, suddenly thirteen years old again.

She's silent for a second.

Then she smiles.

Small.

But real.

"I like you too."

We finish breakfast in a kind of warm haze.

On the walk back to my car, I try to be cool.

Try not to say something stupid.

So of course, I say:

"Would it be weird if I, like, held your hand?"

She grins.

"Only if you don't."

So I do.

And it's clumsy. And a little sweaty. And her pinky loops mine exactly like it did in the hallway that day.

But this time?

No audience.

Just us.

Just... this.