Page 38 of Call It Chemistry

He grins, relief and regret mixing in the lines of his mouth. “You know I’ve never done that before? Gone after who I thought was a stranger just because it felt right?”

Unable to find my voice again, I nod.

He watches me, reading every twitch and microexpression. “What did it feel like for you?”

“Like…” I trail off, searching for something that isn’t a metaphor. “Like I was someone else. But also me, for the first time.”

His eyes soften. “Same.”

The fridge hums, orders get called, a chair scrapes the tile behind us. All the background noise of the universe, but I can only focus on his hands, now steady, palms open on the table.

I swallow, the taste of old fear rising up. I risk looking up, and his gaze meets mine, unflinching. “I don’t want to be a coward anymore.” The words come out like a confession.

He smiles, this time for real. “Neither do I.”

The pause that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of all the things we can’t say yet but maybe will.

He reaches over, just barely, and rests his hand on the Formica, fingers inches from mine. “We could start over,” he says. “Just, like… try it, and see.”

“Okay.”

We sit, sandwiches uneaten, watching each other exist. The silence between us is a living thing. The closer Aaron’s hand gets, the louder it breathes.

He doesn’t rush it. His fingers trace lazy lines on the Formica until they reach the border of my tray. He taps once, a soft question mark, and when I don’t recoil, he lets his pinky nudge against mine. The contact is almost nothing, but it sets my whole nervous system on fire.

Eyes half-lidded, a ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “There was something about you—Jessica—that night,” he says, and the name lands different now. “Something familiar I couldn’t place.”

I swallow. “You mean the wig didn’t give it away?”

He laughs, low and real. “Not even close. It was the way you kissed me.” He shifts, moving his hand so his palm covers the back of mine. The weight is gentle, not possessive. “Your lips feel the same, no matter what you’re wearing.”

My face heats up to a point where I might actually ignite. I feel it in my cheeks, my ears, all the way down my neck. Aaron’s smile widens, but he doesn’t say anything more.

He just leans in, slow enough for me to bail if I want.

I don’t.

We meet in the middle, both awkwardly tilted over the table, elbows bumping into trays and abandoned sandwich wrappers. It’s clumsy and a little ridiculous, but when our lips touch—bare, unmasked, no contest or dare behind it—the world snaps into focus.

It’s a soft kiss, the kind you only see in old movies, but it’s so much louder than anything I remember. My whole body leans forward, desperate not to lose the connection. He tastes likerye and cheap mustard and something chemical that’s probably just him. He lingers a second, maybe two, then pulls back just enough to breathe the same air.

My eyes are still closed when he says, “We can take it slow. I don’t want to mess this up.”

I blink, dazed, and nod. “Yeah. Slow is good.”

He grins, then sits back, hands still folded over mine. We stay like that for a while, not talking, just letting the aftermath settle. The world comes back in increments: the metallic whine of the fridge, the wet thunk of a tomato slice hitting tile, the buzz of conversation from the table behind us.

Eventually, we go back to our food, picking at it in silence. This time, when our knees bump under the table, neither of us moves away.

We finish lunch, trading bite-sized facts instead of life stories. He tells me about the time he was eight and broke his wrist trying to skateboard down the gym stairs; I tell him how I once set a microwave on fire with a marshmallow Peep. The conversation is easy, like we’ve done it before.

When the check comes, Aaron grabs it, brushing my fingers as he pulls the slip of paper from under the ketchup bottle. “My treat,” he says, and when I roll my eyes he adds, “First date, remember?”

It is, technically, our first date. I try out the phrase in my head. It fits, but only just.

We walk out into the cold together, shoulders almost touching, and he lets his hand drift to my lower back, a casual guide. I don’t flinch. I don’t even think about it.

Halfway across the quad, he slows down, tugging me to a stop. “You want to hang out later?” he asks. “Or is that too much, too soon?”