The lights inside the station buzz behind us, but out here it’s quieter — the kind of quiet where you can hear the trees rustle and the gravel settle and the occasional car way off in the distance that’ll never come down this road.
We sit on the curb, side by side, a small dessert box between us.
I’ve kicked off my shoes.
He did too, without saying anything.
Our knees are touchin’.
Like it’s always been this easy.
Cal pops open the lid and pulls a whole cake out of the box.
As he cuts us each a slice with a plastic knife, scooping a little extra chocolate sauce on mine from the corner cup, I grab a fork and napkin.
“Where’d you even get this?” I ask, fork hoverin’ over the chocolate like it might vanish.
He shrugs. “Little place a couple towns over. Mel’s Diner. Cute spot. Tiny. Real loud ceiling fan.”
“You bought a whole cake?”
He shrugs again, tryin to hide that he was a little pink in the ears. “Just asked for two slices. She gave me the whole thing.”
I look at him. “Why?”
“I told her it was for a special person.”
“You told her it was for me?”
“She asked if she might know the lucky girl. I told her ‘No ma’am, it’s for a boy I like and we were going on our first date tonight.’”
I pause.
My mouth goes dry.
He he shovels in another bite of cakie like it’s nothin’. Like he didn’t just tell me that someone knows about us.
“She didn’t even blink,” he says between bites. “Just winked, threw in extra sauce, and said ‘Well aren’t you just the cutest? Y’all better have a good night.’”
“That’s disgustingly wholesome,” I mutter.
He grins. “Told you. Best diner in the state.”
I nudge the paper box with my toe. “You’re gettin’ reckless.”
“I’m gettin’ honest.”
I don’t have a comeback for that.
Not one that works in my mouth.
So instead I say, “Pretty bold of you to assume I’m cute.”
He glances at me sideways. “You wore the shirt.”
I smirk. “You said you liked that shirt back in October.”
“I haven’t changed my mind.”
I scoop up a bite of cake and try not to look like I’m glowin’.
The wind picks up, just enough to make the napkins flutter. I tuck mine under the box. Cal holds his in place with a clean rock he grabs from the gravel like he’s done this before. Like he’s practiced for tonight.
We don’t talk for a little while.
We just eat.
And breathe.
And exist in a way that feels... unedited.
Like we don’t have to perform right now. Like we’re off-stage in some big fancy play.
And the longer we sit here, barefoot, side by side on broken concrete in front of a gas station no one remembers, the more I start to believe this moment is actually ours.
Not borrowed.
Not pretend.
Ours.
“You remember that time in the janitor’s closet?”
He pauses mid-bite.
“Which one?” he mumbles through his food.
I shoot him a look. “Seriously?”
He swallows and grins. “Okay, yeah. The one with the mop water and emotional trauma. Got it.”
I nod slowly, chewing on the edge of my lip.
“We were walking by the locker bays. Mr. Wilkins turned the corner. You heard him before I did. You grabbed my wrist so fast it left a mark.”
He goes quiet beside me.
“Stuffed me into that closet like your life depended on it.”
“I panicked,” he says softly.
I shake my head. “No. You were right to.”
He stares out toward the trees, where the shadows are long and the wind’s starting to hum.
“I remember your hand,” I say. “It was over mine. Holding it so tight. Like you thought I might disappear if you didn’t keep touching me.”
“I did.”
I glance at him.
He’s not smiling now.
Just remembering.
“You said something,” I continue.
He looks at me, brow furrowed. “I did?”
“You don’t remember?”
He shakes his head slowly. “What’d I say?”
I turn to face him.
Our knees bump again.
“You said... ‘We’ll get to the part where we don’t have to hide.’”
The wind pulls gently at his hair. He doesn’t answer right away.
Then he whispers, “I was lying.”
“I know,” I say.
Silence.
But not sad.
Just... honest.
And then, after a beat:
“You weren’t wrong,” I add.
He turns to me, eyebrows raised.
I gesture vaguely around us. “This. Tonight. It’s not nothing.”
He looks down at our bare feet on the gravel.
Then he says, “You think we’re there? The part where we don’t have to hide?”
I pause.
Think.
Then nod.
“Maybe not for them,” I say. “But here? Right now? With the crickets and the grape soda and the mason jar candles?”
I bump his shoulder.
“We made it.”
Cal stands up slowly, brushing crumbs off his fancy tuxedo pants.
I look up at him, squinting.
“Where you going?”
He doesn’t answer. Just strolls over to the speaker — the little black box tucked behind the crate. He scrolls through his phone for a second. A soft beep. A faint flicker.
Then a new song begins.
Older.
Something gentle and low, with that soft vinyl crackle even though it's digital. I don’t recognize it right away — but it feels like it’s been playing in the background of every memory I’ve ever wanted to keep.
He turns to face me.
Just stands there in the dark, lit by nothing but a string of tired fairy lights and whatever starlight managed to survive our town's apathy.
And then, he does it again.
That thing he does.
He holds out his hand.
Palm up.
Open.
Like it’s not even a question.
I stand.
No jokes.
No games.
I take his hand.
And suddenly I’m in his arms again, barefoot, perfect tux, the gravel cool beneath my feet, the night folding in around us like it’s closing the curtain on the rest of the world.
He places his hand on my waist.
I rest mine on his shoulder.
And we dance.
No music loud enough to mask the silence.
No spotlight but the moon.
No audience.
Just us.
The gravel crunches under our feet as we sway, slow and crooked.
I step on his toe.
“Shit—sorry—”
He laughs. “It’s okay. I need that one for balance, but go ahead.”
I try to apologize again, but he twirls me instead.
And I stumble into him, hard.
Our chests bump.
Our noses nearly collide.
I burst out laughing, louder than I should, and bury my face in his shoulder.
“I warned you I don’t dance.”
“You lied,” he murmurs.
“Oh yeah?”
He leans back just enough to meet my eyes.
“You’re dancing with me, aren’t you?”
I don’t say anything.
Just smile like an idiot and try to breathe.
He shifts his hands, one on the small of my back, the other moving to the side of my face, thumb brushing along my cheekbone like he’s memorizing it.
Then—
He dips me.
Way too fast.
I yelp like a cartoon and grab his shirt.
“CAL—!”
He holds me there for a moment, halfway horizontal, eyes wide with mischief.
Then he pulls me up slowly, until we’re nose to nose again.
“You’re ridiculous,” I breathe.
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
“I know that too.”
And then he kisses me on the cheek.
Soft.
Not rushed.
Not hungry.
Just enough pressure to leave an outline on my skin I’ll probably feel for the rest of the night.
Maybe longer.
The song plays on.
The gas station glows behind us, but it already feels far away — like something from another timeline, another version of us who weren’t brave enough to step out into this exact patch of night.
Here, the world is just stars and breath and pulse.
And suddenly — I don’t care.
About them.
The town.
The whispers.
The names.
The risk.
I don’t care.
Because this?
This feels like the truth.
And I’m so tired of lying.
The music fades out.
Neither of us moves.
We’re standing in the dark, arms still around each other, breath still syncing up like we’ve forgotten how to do it separately.
I tilt my head back, just enough to see him.
He’s already looking at me.
But not like earlier. Not teasing. Not grinning.
This time, he’s looking at me like I’m it.
Like I’m not a secret or a weight or a problem to solve.
Just... his.
The air buzzes, soft and low, like the night is giving us permission to say anything.
Everything.
I hold his gaze.
For once, I don’t make a joke to break the moment.
I don’t drop my eyes.
I just say it.
Quiet.
Simple.
True.
“I think I’m yours.”
He doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t move.
Then—
He smiles.
And it’s the most gentle, reverent, wrecked smile I’ve ever seen.
“You always were,” he whispers.
His forehead touches mine.
And we stay like that.
Just breathing.
Just holding.
Because for tonight, for right now—
We’re not hiding.
We’re not afraid.
We’re just us.
* * * * *
The music’s done.
The lights are off.
The candles have melted into stubby puddles of wax.
We’re lying on the hood of the truck now, the metal still warm under our backs. One of his legs touches mine, bare ankle to bare ankle. His hand is resting a few inches from mine, palm up again, same as earlier.
Still not reaching.
Still waiting.
The stars are loud.
They don’t twinkle like in drawings — they burn. Sharp little pricks of white heat in a velvet sky that goes on forever. I keep trying to follow them like they’ll spell something out, like if I connect enough dots I’ll find an answer to a question I don’t know how to ask.
“There’s Orion,” Cal murmurs.
I don’t answer.
I just listen to the wind brush the tops of the trees.
To the quiet rhythm of him breathing beside me.
To the whole world shrinking down to two boys on a truck roof and a universe that, for once, isn’t pressing down.
I turn my head, just barely, and say it.
No buildup.
No ceremony.
Just:
“I love you.”
Simple. Certain.
Said like it was always supposed to be said — not whispered in fear, not hidden behind jokes. Just said.
I don’t wait for him to reply.
I don’t need him to.
I look over and I see him.
Still lying there.
Still smiling.
A single tear slides from the corner of his eye.
Not fast.
Just… quietly.
It tracks down his cheekbone and disappears into his hairline, and he doesn’t wipe it away.
He just lets it fall.
His smile doesn’t break.
It softens.
Like something finally unclenched inside him.
Like he finally got to stop carrying the weight of pretending it didn’t matter.
I don’t say anything.
I just reach out.
Not for his hand.
Not this time.
I touch his chest, right where his heart is — a single, steady press of my hand.
He closes his eyes.
And exhales.
Like the whole night has finally caught up to him and decided to hold him instead of haunt him.
We lie there until the stars start to blur.
Not because we’re crying.
But because we’re finally still enough to see them clearly.
I felt somethin’ brush the side of my hand. Then his fingers curled gently around mine. Another quiet, single tear slipped down his cheek.
He didn’t wipe it away.
I didn’t say nothin’ else.
And together, under all that sky, we just lay there.
