Page 34

"My dignity!"

The table is chaos. I’m already blotting napkins at his leg like a frantic dry cleaner. Kira’s half-laughing, half-apologizing. The couple at the next booth is watching us like we’re a live sitcom.

"I swear," Kira says between giggles, "I didn’t mean to baptize you in sangria."

Nate sighs dramatically. "First the socks confession, now this. My image is ruined."

"At least you smell like citrus and regret," I offer, failing to hold back laughter.

He grins at me through the catastrophe. "You did say ambiance was half the battle."

"This isn’t ambiance," I say, shaking my head. "This is a food fight disguised as a bonding moment."

When the chaos dies down, the waitress returns with a few extra napkins and club soda.

We eat the rest of our meal with extra laughter, soaked napkins everywhere, and a quiet, ridiculous kind of joy I didn’t expect to feel tonight.

It’s honestly the best study break ever.

We bounce between topics: law school horror stories, hockey travel mishaps, and the great debate over whether pineapple belongs on pizza. (It does. Nate's wrong.)

By the time the bill comes, we’re all warm and full from the food and the laughter, a cozy haze settling in like we’ve been doing this for years.

Nate casually reaches for it before we can even make a move. "My treat."

Kira raises an eyebrow. "Look at you, Mr. Gentleman."

"Chivalry isn’t dead," I tease. "Just apparently in hockey skates."

He shrugs like it’s nothing. "You two suffered through my sock confession and a sangria tsunami. Least I can do."

"Well, thanks," I say with a smile. "We’ll make sure to put it in your gentleman file. Right between 'good taste in restaurants' and 'tolerates chaos with grace.'"

Kira adds, "You're stacking points, Jones. Keep it up, and we might let you hang out with us again."

Outside, the cold hits again, sobering but not in a bad way. We walk under a canopy of string lights, boots crunching softly on the salted sidewalk. The streets are alive even on a cold night, tiny bistros glow with golden light, their windows fogged from hot food and customers inside.

A bakery across the street has a tray of fresh cannoli in the window, and a couple walks a fluffy poodle past a boutique that’s still lit up with colored lights strung around the doorframe. There’s a row of brick townhouses down the block with wreathson the doors and smoke curling from chimneys. Every detail feels like a winter postcard, like something you'd miss if you weren't paying attention.

When we reach our building, Kira veers off to grab the mail from the lobby, humming some retro pop song under her breath.

That leaves me and Nate. Side by side.

"Thanks for dinner," I say, shoving my gloved hands deeper into my coat pockets. "That was actually... fun."

"Glad we went. Hope your new study hall works out."

We stop just before the elevators. I look up at him and say, "Nate, thanks again for dinner and the room. I guess I will wait for Kira."

"You're quite welcome. I am going to head upstairs and get out of these wet and now cold pants."

We don’t kiss.

But we hover.

That close-but-not moment, full of potential and tension and all the things you don’t say out loud.

He tilts his head, just slightly. "Night, Mandy."