Page 6

Chapter six

Flyn

I read the message three times.

Then I read it a fourth, just to make sure I didn’t imagine it.

‘Don’t thank me! I want to thank you. It meant a lot.’

That’s it. No emoji. No second message. No cute follow-up, no ‘goodnight’ or ‘talk soon’ or anything else that would give me even a sliver more information.

I flop backward onto the couch, phone resting on my chest, and stare up at the ceiling like it might hold some secret answer about what the hell this is turning into.

The glow of the screen fades, but my smile doesn’t.

God. I’m a grown man, and I’m grinning like an idiot at twelve words from someone who used to work in the cubicle next to mine.

A guy who has been out of my life for over a year.

A guy who ghosted everyone, who vanished from the office and the group chats and even the shared Google calendar like he never existed.

No goodbye drinks, no farewell Slack post, nothing. Just poof.

Gone.

And then tonight he sat across from me like no time had passed at all.

His smile was softer than I remembered. A little hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to use it. But once it settled in, it caught, like warmth seeping into the cold edges of a long winter.

And I couldn’t stop wanting to kiss him .

I sit up again, phone cradled in my hands, and reread the message. Not like there’s a hidden meaning tucked behind the words. It’s not a puzzle. He didn’t say anything dramatic. He didn’t say anything about doing it again. No breadcrumbs to follow.

But still… it feels like something. It felt like something the whole time we were together.

There is something else as well. A tangible thing that is probably far more important than connection, attraction or whatever the hell it is that I’m obsessing about.

The signs of this darker thing were everywhere. I saw it in the way he fidgeted, tapping his thumb against the stem of his wineglass, in the way his voice tightened when I asked about his life, like the words were heavier than they should be.

Something’s going on with him.

And not just the surface-level, ‘I’m shy and hate talking about myself’ kind of thing. No, it’s something far deeper than that. Raw and frayed. Like he’s holding himself together with threadbare string and stubborn willpower.

But even so, there were flashes, tiny moments where that tension cracked open.

When he teased me about still going to that same grimy coffee shop by the office, his eyes sparked with genuine amusement.

When our hands brushed over the breadbasket and he didn’t pull away immediately.

When he smiled for real, like he forgot to be afraid of it.

In those moments, he looked alive.

Like maybe I wasn’t imagining all of it. Like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t the only one who left that dinner a little bit wrecked in the best possible way.

I let out a breath and tip my head back against the cushion, letting it thunk against the fabric. The ceiling’s no help, as usual. My phone buzzes against my chest and for one traitorous second my heart vaults into my throat .

Maybe it’s him. Maybe he changed his mind and sent a second message. Maybe he…

Nope.

It’s just the group chat. More useless memes and overzealous yelling about movie night logistics.

I should care. But right now, it feels like noise. White static beneath the hum of something far more important.

I swipe the notification away and pull up Jade’s message again. My thumb hovers over the keyboard, mind racing with possible replies.

‘Me too. You were kind of the highlight of my week.’

No. Too much. Way too much.

‘Glad we did it. Hope we can do it again sometime?’

…Maybe. But even that feels like it’s teetering too close to eager.

‘It meant a lot to me too.’

Almost.

I almost hit send.

But then I don’t.

Because I remember the way he looked tonight, eyes darting like he was caught between fight and flight. Like being near me felt good but dangerous, like every shared smile was setting off alarm bells in his head.

I don’t want to scare him off.

So instead, I just heart the message. Quiet. Steady. Letting him know I saw it, letting him know I’m still here. No pressure. No chase.

I set the phone down on the coffee table, farther away this time, and force myself to stand. My body feels restless, jittering with energy I can’t burn off. I go to brush my teeth, just to give my hands something to do.

Otherwise, I will end up writing him a three-paragraph message about how I’ve missed him.

How I still think about him making dumb jokes in our old break room.

How I want to know him now, not just the man he used to be, but the man sitting across from me tonight with all those new, unreadable layers.

By the time I crawl into bed, I’m still buzzing. Not from caffeine. Not from wine. From him.

From the weight of that quiet little message. From the unbearable hope that this thing, whatever it is, might not be as one-sided as I’ve feared.

The way he looked at me when I made him laugh. The way his fingers trembled when he reached for his glass. The way he kept checking his expression, as if afraid to let too much show.

Every stolen glance, every brush of his hand, every half-smile that never quite turned into a full one.

And the way he said, “This isn’t a date,” like he was trying to convince himself more than me.

But it felt like a date.

I know it’s too soon. I know I could be reading too much into a few short hours and a handful of glances. But I also know what I felt tonight.

It felt like a date. And I’m not done feeling that way. Not yet.

I close my eyes and wriggle around until I find some semblance of comfortable. But still sleep doesn’t come easily.

I keep shifting under the covers, kicking them off, pulling them back up. My mind won’t shut up. It keeps replaying the evening like a favorite song on loop, each note more familiar and more dangerous the longer it plays.

I think about how his eyes darted away when I asked why he left town.

How his fingers curled into his palm like he was holding something sharp and didn’t want to let it go.

How, for one fragile moment, he let the guardrails down and told me, in that quiet, reluctant way, “I just needed to disappear for a while.”

And God, did that hit me in the chest.

I get it. I really do. There have been a thousand mornings when I wanted to do the same.

When the weight of expectations and disappointments felt so heavy, I thought about packing a bag and walking until my legs gave out.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him now.

Because beneath all the restless energy and half-smiles, I recognize someone running from his own shadow.

The clock on my nightstand blinks. 1:17 a.m.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself to sleep, but it’s no use. My brain is too loud. My heart is even louder.

What if this is my second chance? The question ambushes me, half-wild and aching with hope.

What if I don’t let him drift away this time?

Because I did, once. I let him go. I let him slip through the cracks of routine and unanswered group chats. He slipped away while I was keeping it casual and pIaying it cool. I didn’t know he was going to disappear, but I still let him go.

And afterwards, when he was gone and I thought about him, and oh God did I think about him, I convinced myself it didn’t matter. I told myself it was nothing. Just an old work friend. Just nostalgia.

But it’s not just nostalgia. Not anymore.

Tonight proved that.

I throw the covers off completely and pace across my bedroom, restless as hell. My apartment feels too small, too quiet. I think about texting him again, just something simple, something not at all cool like ‘Are you still awake?’

But I don’t. Because I know if he’s awake, he’s probably lying in his bed, replaying tonight just like I am. And if he’s not, I don’t want to wake him and risk shattering whatever delicate thread is still holding us together.

Even so, my fingers itch for my phone.

I wonder if he’s waiting for me to say something more. I wonder if he’s staring at his screen, hoping for a second message that never came. I wonder if he’s afraid. If he’s standing on the same edge I am, looking down and wondering if it’s safe to jump.

The truth is, I want to tell him everything .

I want to tell him I noticed the way his hands trembled.

I want to tell him I caught the flicker of sadness in his eyes.

I want to tell him I’ve thought about him more times than I can count, in quiet moments between calls at work, while standing in line for coffee, while lying in bed and staring at the ceiling just like this.

I want to tell him I missed him. Stupidly, deeply, irrationally missed him.

But I don’t. Because I’m terrified I’ll push too hard, too fast, and he’ll vanish all over again.

So instead, I pace. I pace until my legs ache and my chest tightens with the weight of everything unsaid.

I have to find that thin line, that precarious balance between letting him slip away and coming on too strong and pushing him away.

When I finally crawl back into bed, the sheets are cold. My mind races in endless circles, but slowly, exhaustion drags me under.

And just before sleep claims me, a quiet thought slips through the fog.

Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow I’ll say more. Maybe tomorrow I’ll send a real message instead of just a heart reaction. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take the risk.

Because tonight, he opened a door. Just a crack. But it was enough. Enough to let in the light. Enough to let me hope.

M orning comes too early.

The sunlight slices through the blinds, throwing bars of gold across my face. My phone is still on my nightstand, the screen dark, no new notifications. My chest dips a little at that, but I tell myself it’s fine. I wasn’t expecting anything overnight.

I stretch, roll over, and grab my phone anyway, thumbing it awake like maybe, just maybe, I missed something .

Still nothing.

But I open our chat anyway, staring at his message from last night.

‘Don’t thank me! I want to thank you. It meant a lot.’

Twelve words. Twelve words that have taken up every inch of space in my head since he sent them.

I bite my lip, debating. Maybe now is the right time. Maybe a morning message feels safer. Less pressure. Casual, even.

I type, ‘ Me too. More than I expected.’

I stare at the words, my thumb hovering over the send button. My heart thuds against my ribs, wild and uncertain.

Then I think about his smile. The real one, not the careful, guarded one. The one he gave me when I teased him about always ordering the same pastry at the office cafe. When he laughed, it was like watching winter thaw into spring.

I really, really want to see that smile again.

I hit send.

The moment the message goes through, my pulse skyrockets. No taking it back now.

I toss the phone aside like it’s suddenly radioactive and scrub my hands over my face. Breathe. Breathe. Just let it be.

Minutes crawl by.

Nothing.

I get up, shuffle to the kitchen, start a pot of coffee even though my stomach is too knotted to think about food or caffeine. I distract myself with small tasks, watering the plants, unloading the dishwasher, checking emails that can wait until Monday.

But when my phone buzzes, I swear my heart stops.

I snatch it up so fast I nearly drop it.

His name is on the screen.

My breath catches as I open the message.

‘I’d like to see you again.’

That’s it. Simple. Direct. No emojis, no fluff. But my knees go a little weak anyway .

My chest tightens, this time in the best possible way. Heat blooms behind my ribs like sunlight breaking through clouds.

I want to say yes immediately. I want to scream yes from the rooftop. But I force myself to play it cool, just a little.

I type, ‘ Me too. When are you free?’

A beat passes.

Then, ‘ Tonight?’

My breath whooshes out like I’ve been holding it all morning.

I grin, wide and unstoppable.

Tonight.