The words sat in the air between them, fragile as glass. Tina watched Tyler's shoulders drop, the tension bleeding out of him like he'd been holding a breath for three days. His hands were still shaking, but he didn't try to hide them anymore.

"I thought I'd never see you again," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "I thought you were d-done with me."

Her chest ached. She wanted to reach for him—to touch his arm, his hand, anything—but she held herself still. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her sitting next to you. I felt like I was losing something I never even had."

He looked up at her, his eyes wet. "You h-have me."

Her heart stuttered. "What?"

"You have me," he repeated, and this time it came out steadier. "I've been—I've been s-scared, Tina. I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to be with someone like you." He gestured at her—at the sheer crop top that left nothing to imagination, at the curve of her hips, at everything she was. "But I want to l-learn."

She felt heat climb her throat. "Someone like me?"

"Beautiful." He said it like it cost him something. "Confident. Out of my l-league."

She stepped forward. The distance between them shrank to a single breath.

"You don't get to decide that," she said, her voice rough. "You don't get to tell me what league you're in. I've been sitting at your table every day. I've been wearing these clothes—" she gestured at herself, "—because I wanted you to look at me. And you barely did. I thought you didn't want me."

His face twisted. "I wanted you so m-much it scared me. I thought—" He shook his head. "I thought if I l-looked at you too long, you'd see how bad I w-wanted it. And then you'd run."

The confession hung between them, raw and honest.

"I'm not running," she whispered. "I've been running toward you, Tyler. From the moment I sat down at that table, I've been running."

He stared at her. The window-unit AC hummed. The kitchen lights flickered faintly.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Six. You're taking me out."

A smile broke across his face—uncertain, beautiful, real. "Yeah." He swallowed. "Yeah, I am."

She felt giddy, lightheaded, like she'd stepped off a ledge and was still falling.

"I should go," he said, but he didn't move. "Your mom's probably wondering—"

"She's not here. She's at work."

He nodded slowly. The silence stretched, comfortable and electric.

"You can stay," she said again. "If you want."

He looked at the narrow hallway behind her. "What would we do?"

"I don't know. Talk. Sit. Watch something." She shrugged, trying to look casual while her pulse hammered. "I'm not going to jump you, Tyler. I just—" She stopped, searching for the right words. "I've missed you. Even when you were just texts on my phone, I missed you."

His expression softened. "I missed you too."

He stepped closer. Not enough to touch, but enough that she could smell him—laundry detergent, something clean and warm. She wanted to press her face into his chest.

"Come sit with me," she said, and turned toward the living room before he could see how much she needed him to follow.

The living room was modest—a worn couch, a coffee table stacked with textbooks, a TV that hadn't been turned on in months. She dropped onto the couch, the cushion groaning under her. Tyler stood at the edge of the room, hesitant.

"I don't bite," she said, patting the space beside her. "Unless you ask nicely."

He let out a strangled laugh, but he crossed the room and sat beside her. The couch dipped. They were close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him.

"This is weird, right?" she said. "This whole thing?"

"Very weird." He turned to face her. "But good weird."

She smiled. "Good weird. I can work with that."

They sat in silence for a moment. The AC hummed. Somewhere outside, a car drove past. The world kept turning, and they were here, inches apart, no longer pretending.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked.

"Always."

She picked at a loose thread on her jeans. "I've never had to work for anyone's attention before. Guys just—look at me. Like I'm a piece of meat they want to eat. I hate it. But with you..." She looked up at him. "You looked at me like I was actually a person. It made me want to try harder."

He was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was low. "I saw you across the cafeteria on the first day of school. You were laughing at something your friend said. Your head tilted back. The light caught your hair." He swallowed. "I couldn't look away. I thought you were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen."

Her breath caught.

"I never thought you'd talk to me," he continued. "I never thought you'd sit at my table. And when you did, I panicked. I didn't know what to do with it."

"You did fine," she said, her voice softer than she meant. "You were perfect."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. "I st-stuttered through every sentence."

"I know." She grinned. "It was adorable."

He groaned, but the sound was warm, comfortable.

Her phone buzzed. She ignored it.

"Don't you need to get that?" he asked.

"Not as much as I need to be here."

He looked at her, really looked at her, and for the first time she let herself believe that he wanted to be here as much as she wanted him.

"Tomorrow," he said. "What time did I say?"

"Six."

"Six." He nodded, committing it to memory. "I'll be here."

"I'll be waiting."

He stood, and she stood with him. They faced each other in the narrow space between the couch and the coffee table.

"I really should go," he said. "Before I talk myself into staying."

"Would that be so bad?"

He held her gaze. "If I stay, I don't think I'll want to leave."

Her heart ached with the sweetness of it. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." He walked to the door, paused, turned back. "Tina?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm really glad you didn't give up on me."

She felt her eyes sting again. "Me too."

He opened the door and stepped out into the warm evening. The door clicked shut behind him.

She stood in the hallway, the floorboards cool under her feet, and pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was still racing.

Tomorrow. Six. A date.

She pulled out her phone, ignoring the texts from her mother, and opened his contact. Tyler 💛. She smiled at the little heart.

She typed: Get home safe. I'm counting the hours.

His response came faster than she expected: Already home. Can't stop smiling. Is this real?

She wrote back: It's real. Get used to it.

She tucked her phone away and let herself feel it—the full weight of what had just happened.

He had showed up. He had apologized. He had asked her out.

She had said yes.

For the first time in days, the ache in her chest was gone, replaced by something bright and trembling and new.

Hope.

The restaurant was nothing like the places she usually went to with her friends—no velvet ropes, no bottle service, no music so loud she couldn't hear herself think. It was small, tucked between a laundromat and a bodega, with a faded awning and a handwritten sign in the window that read Thursday Special: Pierogis & Borscht.

Tyler held the door open for her, and she stepped into a room that smelled like butter and onions and something slow-cooked. A woman with gray-streaked hair and a flour-dusted apron called out from behind the counter, "Tyler! You came!"

"H-hi, Mrs. Kowalski."

The woman—Mrs. Kowalski—wiped her hands on her apron and came around the counter, her eyes landing on Tina with obvious approval. "And who is this?"

"This is—this is Tina." He swallowed. "My—my d-date."

Mrs. Kowalski's face broke into a smile that crinkled her eyes. "Well, Tina, any friend of Tyler's is family here. I'll get you the booth in the back. Quiet, private. Just the way he asked."

Tina's heart did a small flip. He asked for a quiet table. Private. He planned this.

They followed Mrs. Kowalski to a booth near the back, upholstered in red vinyl that had seen better decades, a candle flickering in a glass holder on the table. Tina slid in across from Tyler, and for a moment they just looked at each other, the flame casting shadows across his face.

"This is perfect," she said.

He ducked his head, a flush creeping up his neck. "It's—it's not fancy."

"I didn't ask for fancy." She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his knuckles. "I asked for you."

He looked at her hand on his, and she saw something shift in his eyes—surprise, maybe, or disbelief, like he still couldn't quite accept that she was here, that this was real. He turned his hand over slowly, palm up, an invitation.

She laced her fingers through his.

The contact was electric, a low hum that traveled up her arm and settled in her chest. His palm was warm, slightly calloused, and he held her hand like it was something precious, something he was afraid to break.

"I've never done this before," he said quietly.

"Dated?"

He shook his head. "Been on a date with someone like you."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she squeezed his hand and let the silence speak for her.

Mrs. Kowalski brought them menus—handwritten, laminated, the edges curling—and took their drink order. Tyler asked for water; Tina ordered a cherry soda, and when it came in a glass bottle with a straw, she almost laughed at how perfectly unpretentious the whole evening was.

They ordered pierogis and potato pancakes and a bowl of borscht that Tyler swore was the best in the city. And they talked. Not about school, not about the cafeteria, not about the jocks or Kelly or any of the noise that had tangled them up. They talked about things that mattered. His grandmother's recipe for apple pie. Her summer job at a bookstore two years ago, shelving romance novels and judging customers by their covers. The scar through his eyebrow—a bike accident when he was twelve, his brother's bike, a hill too steep, a tree that got in the way.

She told him about her dad, how he'd left when she was fourteen, how her mom had worked double shifts to keep their house, how she'd learned to dress loud so no one would look close enough to see how scared she was.

He listened. Not the way other people listened—waiting for their turn to speak, scanning for an opening to redirect. He listened like her words mattered, like he was storing them away, like he wanted to know every corner of her.

By the time Mrs. Kowalski brought dessert—two plates of cheesecake, drizzled with raspberry sauce, on the house—Tina had forgotten to be nervous. The knot that had lived in her chest for days, the one that had tightened every time she'd seen Kelly's smug face, was gone.

"Thank you," she said, her voice soft.

He looked up from his cheesecake. "For what?"

"For not giving up. For showing up at my house. For—" She gestured at the booth, the candle, the plates between them. "For all of this."

He set down his fork. "I almost didn't."

Her hand stilled.

"When you stopped—when you started ignoring me—I thought maybe I'd imagined it. The whole thing. Maybe you were just being nice. Maybe I was—" The stutter caught, and he pushed through it. "Maybe I was just a project to you."

The word hit her like a slap. She deserved that. She'd treated him like a puzzle to solve, a challenge to win. She'd never stopped to think about what he was feeling, what he wanted, what he was afraid of.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I should have come to you. Should have asked you instead of assuming."

He shook his head. "I should have told you about Kelly. The first time she showed up. I just—I didn't know how. I didn't know if you'd care."

"I care." She said it like a vow. "I care so much it scares me, Tyler."

He looked at her, really looked at her, and she saw the fear in his eyes—the fear that she'd leave, that this was a dream he'd wake from, that he wasn't enough. She wanted to climb across the table and wrap herself around him, to press her lips to his forehead and tell him that he was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

Instead, she said, "Can I kiss you?"

His breath caught. "Here?"

"Here. Now. If you want."

He looked at the candle, at the cheesecake, at her. "I want."

She leaned across the table, and the distance between them collapsed. Her lips met his—soft, tentative, a question. His hand found hers again, and he kissed her back, gentle and sweet and full of all the words he couldn't say.

When she pulled back, his eyes were open, searching hers.

"Was that—" He swallowed. "Was that okay?"

She smiled, her heart so full it ached. "That was perfect."

He smiled back, a real smile, and she watched the fear in his eyes soften into something like belief.