#caitiewrites

But a new company, one that had cropped up right around the time he retired, was performing La Bayadere tonight, mere blocks from his second apartment. He convinced himself it would be a good time, that it was important to remind himself why he had loved this world—why he still did. 

It had somehow already been six months since acquiring his new place, but D.C. still felt like a brand new city to Jenifer. It made sense, since he was usually in one of only three places: his apartment, the grocery store, or the new SoftPointe store that would hold its grand opening in a few weeks. In contrast, the Kennedy Center was familiar ground from what felt like another lifetime. He’d expected that odd sense of walking through his own past, had mentally prepared for it.

But he hadn’t expected her. Wouldn’t have even known how to prepare.

He was sitting in an aisle seat, dressed plainly—black trousers, navy sweater, reading glasses on so he could read his program.  But his eyes settled, naturally, inevitably, on the girl in the black dress walking to her seat. She settled in one row ahead, right across the aisle. 

Long limbs, pale, exposed, elegant in a way that seemed anything but practiced. Tall—taller than him, certainly, especially in those heels. Slinky black dress,  thin straps clinging to her collarbones. Rich brown curls fell down her back, a little mussed and undone, like she’d debated pinning it up and had decided against it at the last second. 

She wasn’t beautiful in the modern sense, but she reminded him of old paintings, unfinished sketches—Schiele, maybe. Delicate, but restless. A muse from a different time. 

He was suddenly uncomfortably aware of his own body. His back against the chair, hands in his lap, trousers a little snug at his thighs, the pressure of his belt. 

Jen looked away quickly. He was too old for whatever he’d just felt. Too old for her. But the heat of something entirely improper settled low in his stomach as he pretended to read his program. 

He told himself not to watch her during the performance. He failed. 

She was watching the dancers with a kind of… reverence. Big, dark eyes never leaving the stage. She didn’t fidget, didn’t shift. It wasn’t that she was trying to absorb it, but rather, it had absorbed her. 

She watched ballet the way he had hoped, for all those years, that people had watched him.

Jen’s heart thudded, the press of his trousers mocking him now. It was obscene, almost, to feel so seen by someone who wasn't even looking at him.

The purpose of him coming out, to appreciate a show and rekindle his adoration for the art, was completely lost. A dancer could’ve fallen and he might not’ve noticed—preoccupation was hardly a big enough word. 

He told himself it was merely lust finally rearing its ugly head. It’d been a long time, almost twenty years since he’d been with anyone. A few odd dates here and there, usually set up by his best friend Jeremy, never leading to anything. The fact that he wasn’t cut out for dating or casual romance—he was never, ever good at casual, in any part of life—didn’t stop the body from wanting, evidently.

When the final curtain fell, the applause was thunderous. His mystery woman rose with the audience, clapping earnestly, a smile on her face, eyes bright. Patrons around them began filing out, and when she turned to leave…

He lost sight of her in the crowd. 

He told himself that was fine. That it was the only realistic, sensible outcome. And so he gathered his coat, waiting patiently for his turn before following the slow tide toward the exits. The lobby was crowded, voices overlapping, heels clicking against marble. A chill eased in from outside as people filed in and out of the large entrance, and he tugged his coat on, scanning the room in spite of himself. 

She’s gone. And you wouldn’t have spoken to her anyway. And she looked about twenty—

He accidentally bumped into someone behind him as he searched. There was a soft gasp, the fast click-clack of heels trying to catch their footing, another brush against his shoulder for balance. He was reaching out before he realized it, hands light at dainty elbows, skin brushing the waist of a familiar silky black dress. 

He looked up into those wide, molten brown eyes. It was her.

The heat returned instantly, sharp and disorienting, and his body reacted before his mind could catch up, a low, traitorous pulse of arousal that made him painfully aware of the narrow space between them, of the faint scent of her perfume—something soft and musky.

“Sorry,” he said at the same time she did.

She laughed, a little breathless. “It was my fault. These shoes are… difficult.”

Her voice was warm, a little shy. And he was still holding her.

He let go immediately, mortified. “I’m sorry,” he said again, unnecessarily. “You’re alright?”

“Yes, thank you. I… I…” she trailed off, head cocking to one side as her eyes searched his face. They narrowed, then widened—not in fear, but recognition. Something soft and startled. “You’re—” 

His eyes widened, because he hadn’t been recognized in years. 

She stopped herself, biting her lip. “I’m sorry. You’re probably tired of—I just—you are, aren’t you? Jenifer Rosenfeld?”

“I am,” he answered, hardly knowing what else to say. 

“I— That’s very… Crazy,” she laughed softly, placing a hand over her heart, smiling sheepishly. “I just— It’s— You’re sort of the reason I’m even here.”

His brows furrowed and she hurried to elaborate. 

“That sounds weird—I mean, your video, a video of you performing came up on my YouTube feed, and I’d never really watched ballet before. But I watched it, and… I guess I got a little obsessed. With ballet, I mean! But… because of you.”

Jenifer swallowed hard. He didn’t know what to say. He had been recognized before of course, especially in his younger years, when he hadn’t been so reclusive and had actually spent time around the art scene in various cities. 

But no one ever said things like this. No one ever stumbled over their words. No one ever blushed.

Her cheeks flushed an even deeper pink at his silence. “Sorry—I’m embarrassing myself. I don’t mean to bother you, I just… You were a wonderful dancer. Even to someone who doesn’t know anything more about ballet than how pretty it is.”

“No,” he said, voice a little hoarse as he shook his head, “You’re not embarrassing yourself. That’s a very nice thing to say.”

The words seemed to put her at ease, her smile returning in full bloom. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you in La Sylphide. That’s why I came tonight. I had to see if ballet felt as beautiful in person.” She looked like a girl from a dream and she had come to the ballet because of him. Because of something he did with his body. With his life. Heat rushed to his face, his neck. Below. Something pulsed low in his stomach again, sudden and strong and inconvenient.

He cleared his throat, stepped back slightly, and tried not to shift his coat in front of himself like a teenager.

“I’m honored,” he said, voice barely above the din. “That’s… very kind.”

A couple walked by, a tall man saying something about catching their train, and she checked her watch at the words, a soft little “Oh…” escaping her. 

“You have to catch the metro?” Jenifer surmised, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. 

She nodded. “If I want to get home at a reasonable time, yeah.”

“I’ll walk you,” he said, surprising even himself. 

“You— Really?”

“If I may.” He couldn’t let her go to the Metro alone. Of course not. The streets were still wet, and her shoes were ridiculous. Beautiful. But ridiculous.

“I… Yes. I would like that. Thank you.”

She stopped at the coat check on their way out, slipping on a scuffed leather jacket that had seen better days. He pictured her in something before he could stop himself—soft wool, bright white, almost cape-like. He cast the thought from his mind as they headed out into the chill of night. 

Outside, the air was damp and cool. The concrete was wet from the earlier rain, little puddles reflecting light, the sound of mist against tires mixing with conversations and laughter as people scattered to rideshares. The sun was down, only the slightest hint of evening-blue still left in the sky.

He offered his elbow as they neared the stairs. “Careful. They might be slippery.”

She thanked him so softly, like it was the first kindness she’d ever been granted, and held his arm as though she was afraid to touch.

“Did you enjoy the performance?” he asked, matching her gait.

“Yes. It was very pretty.”

Pretty. He should’ve found that word reductive. But coming from her—soft, shy, genuine—it made something in his chest ache.

“I think that’s a good word,” he said gently. “Pretty.”

She smiled again, and it gripped his heart and twisted. They reached the bottom of the stairs and she paused, reaching for her phone. “It’s, um—I used Maps to get here, let me just—”

“Which station?”

“Um, Foggy Bottom—”

“This way,” he said simply, leading her with a gentle hand at the back of her coat. Her dress slinked around her legs, light breeze catching fabric and revealing more pale thigh than should’ve been legal. He tried not to look. Failed. 

“So,” he said, too suddenly to sound as casual as he was hoping, “What do you do?”

“You mean, for work?” She continued when he nodded, “Um, I work retail right now. Just part time. But I write—I’m trying to take it more seriously.”

“Ah, an author?”

She shrugged. “I mean, ideally, yeah. But right now I mostly just have a million drafts and no money.”

He lets himself smile. “That’s how most great writers begin, I think.”

She walked like she wasn’t used to being noticed. And yet to him, every part of her was designed to be — long neck, soft profile, collarbone catching streetlight. A woman painted for a frame.

He continued with soft, easy questions. What did she write? What store did she work at? Did she like it? What ballets did she want to see?

Her answers were sincere, casual and unpolished in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. Over the years he’d grown used to a certain level of pretentiousness, an attitude of superiority that unfortunately seemed to latch itself onto almost anyone who had been too successful for too long. Either that, or the straight-laced, no-nonsense attitude of those who were trying far too hard to be taken seriously, much as he had in his youth. 

“Are you from D.C.?” she asked.

“No, I grew up in New York. Just outside the city, then in the city once I was no longer in school. I’ll be living in D.C. for a while, though. Work.”

“Oh,” she replied, smiling far too politely for her next words. “Lucky city.”

His insides stumbled. She was flirting, unmistakably. God help him. 

“You’re very young,” he found himself saying, not unkindly. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” she answered, a little defensive. “Is that a problem?”

“No.” It was a few years older than he would’ve guessed, and actually provided him with a slight sense of relief. “Not at all.”

She studied him. “How old are you?”

He hesitated. “Forty-eight.” And so close to his birthday that he was practically forty-nine, which felt far too much like fifty.

Still, saying it out loud made him acutely aware of the age difference. Twenty-one years. A whole life between them, like a vast, uncharted territory. And yet… 

“What’s your name?” he asked as they neared the entrance of the station. 

She opened her mouth, just on the verge of answering when she bit it back with a little smile. “Guess,” she said instead. 

His eyebrows raised. “Guess?” He laughed when she nodded, though her smile was bright and adorable. “You want me to guess, out of all the women's names in the world?”

“Yes, I do. You asked a woman her age before her name, that’s very impolite,” she teased, pausing on the platform before the stairs. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t ask me at all. I think I’ve earned my little game.”

They turned to face each other fully, stepping aside so they wouldn’t block the stairs. People filed past, but Jen hardly noticed. He was… entranced.

“Alright…” He looked her over, realizing he should be grateful for the excuse to finally do so.

She was tall. Thin. A pinnacle of innocence, even donned in beaten-up leather. Regal in a way that he had a feeling she had no knowledge of, but cute, too—her mouth was doing a very poor job of fighting off a coy little smile. 

Names flickered through his mind, none quite matching, though any of them could’ve been right regardless. Still, it wasn’t until one felt right that he blurted, 

“Elizabeth.”

Her eyes widened, head cocking, back going straighter.

He felt himself flush at the reaction. “It can’t actually be.”

“That’s my middle name,” she said, voice soft and filled with wonder. “How did you do that?”

He laughed, incredulous. “You’re toying with me.”

“I’m not! I swear on…” She looked around, laughing too, gesturing to the structure below the staircase. “On my train ride home. Elizabeth is my middle name.”

“Well, that’s a lot of lives to put at risk, so I suppose I should believe you.” He stepped closer as a little commotion outside the station made her give a wary, distracted glance over. “Do I get a first name to go with it? Or do I have to tell people I met a lovely woman at the ballet and only got her middle name?”

The blush on her cheeks was instant and bright, shyness sweeping over her at the flirtation. “My name is Caitlin,” she relented.

Somehow, it was fitting enough that he swore he would’ve guessed it if he’d thought of it first. A train groaned in the distance, and she shot a nervous glance towards the stairs. 

“I should—”

“You shouldn’t go down alone. I’ll see you to your train—if that’s alright.”

She looked at him for a long moment, as if she hadn’t expected anything of the sort, despite the long walk he’d just accompanied her on. And as though she couldn’t find the words, she only nodded, letting him lead the way down the cold, metal steps. 

“I saw you,” he said as they descended, unable to help himself, “during the show.” 

She looked at him, half-alarmed, half-flattered. He scanned his metro-card to accompany her to the platform, thinking nothing of it.

“I was just a row behind you, to the side,” he justified himself, not meaning to frighten her. “I couldn’t help noticing. I’ve never seen someone so still during a performance.”

She relaxed once she saw other patrons waiting for the same train as her, confirmation that it hadn’t come yet. Finally she turned her attention back to him—he felt ridiculous for how right it felt to be on the receiving end of it. 

“I didn’t want to miss anything.”

“I always used to hope someone was watching me like that.”

She tilted her head, a beat passing between them. “I was,” she finally said. “Just… later on.”

That stopped him, had him so frozen in place he wasn’t sure if he was breathing. From stage, to camera, to the internet, to a screen in her bedroom, all these years later. 

Her curls fell even looser now around her jacket, blowing gently as a train screeched to a stop on the tracks across the way. She looked like a half-dreamed thing, tall and strange and so much younger than him it made his chest ache.

“Would you like to get a coffee sometime?” he asked, immediately thinking it too informal. “Or dinner, rather?” he added, before she could answer. “At my place. If you’re comfortable with that. Restaurants are just so noisy. I’d like to talk more. About… things. Ballet. You. Life. You.” He nearly winced at his own babbling—he was so out of practice, but then, had he ever been in practice? 

She smiled again, and it hit him like a piano dropped from a height. “I would like that. A lot.”

He was in trouble.

He was looking for excitement, and she screamed it. 

“See something you like?” David’s smooth voice came from beside Marko as he watched the woman step down and head back into the store. 

“You ever seen her before?” Marko asked, curiosity spiking. Was she new in town? Just spending the summer here? Or had she somehow flown under his radar?

David shrugged a shoulder. “Who’d remember?”

The snub grated on him for a second, but he knew better than to take David’s remarks personally.

Paul shook Marko by the shoulders, grinning like a cheshire cat. “The woman is wild. Go play with fire.”

Marko fidgeted, gloved hand coming to his mouth, watching with curiosity as she gave a lone customer a soft smile and quickly busied herself with a circular rack of shirts that already looked pretty organized. She must’ve felt him staring—her eyes flicked up once, down, then up again, as if to make sure she hadn’t been mistaken.

He made sure there was no mistaking it. He held her gaze, expecting her to smirk, maybe cock her head to invite him in. Instead he watched her breath catch and the color rush to her cheeks before she looked back down at the rack, finally turning away altogether.

“Hmm,” Dwayne hummed a little in clear amusement. “Woman’s not so wild after all.”

“Maybe she doesn’t like what she sees,” David teased, pushing off of the candy machine he’d been resting lazily against. “Let’s go now.”

Marko barely registered what either of them said. “Go. I’ll catch up.”

David let out a quiet laugh that was half amusement, half annoyance. “Fine. Go play.”

“Try not to scare her too bad, huh?” Paul playfully pushed Marko’s head as he passed by, the three boys heading back into the crowd of the boardwalk.

Marko headed casually into the little store, feigning nonchalance, letting his eyes travel over the merchandise as if he wasn’t looking for one thing in particular. He pretended to not be bored by the typical touristy shirts and hoodies, occupying himself so that he didn’t give in and walk right over to her the way he wanted to. 

Still, he couldn’t help stealing glances, watching from the corner of his eye. As he neared the rack she was at, she turned and busied herself with the sunglasses display near the checkout counter, long hair falling in front of her face. She was tall, but held herself in a way that made it look like she was trying to shrink—ironic, considering the studded boots on her feet that were giving her at least an extra two inches. 

He took the opportunity to look her over, his eyes trailing down, studying. Long limbs, hard angles, short little silky slip dress, sheer, sparkly tights. Black cloth against cool, pale skin. Fingernails bare, but not chewed—clearly an unshared vice. Endless waves of soft, dark hair. A soft, musky perfume he could smell from where he stood, something unassuming and unintentionally—probably even accidentally—sensual. 

She must’ve felt his gaze again, because she turned, peeking out from behind that curtain of hair to meet his eyes. Hers were surrounded by black shadow, smoked out behind heavy mascara, her irises almost as dark as the makeup. “Um, can I help you find something?”

Her voice was so soft, so small, that he couldn’t help the little smile that bloomed on his face. “I dunno. Is there anything worth finding?”

She turned back to the display, her face already going a little pink again—he hadn’t even come onto her yet, and she was already blushing. Cute, he thought, very cute.

“Well… I guess… It depends what you like. If you’re visiting, we have—” She stopped short as he came closer, leaning on the counter beside her so he could actually see her face. She met his eyes again for only a second before dropping her gaze back to the glasses, hands fumbling with a cheap plastic pair. He watched with fascination as her chest rose quickly with a nervous breath. “We have, um, a lot of… Santa Carla… stuff. Souvenirs.” Her volume decreased with every word, and he leaned in closer, leather jacket creaking.

“You always this quiet?” 

“Oh– I– Sorry,” she murmured. He hated that he put shame in her expression. 

“What for? Didn’t mean it as a bad thing.”

She nodded but said nothing, eyes downcast in embarrassment. 

“I’m not visiting. At this point, souvenirs make me a little nauseous.” That earned him a little upturn of her lips, so small he might’ve missed it if he wasn’t staring. “Same with all those same shirt decals year after year.” 

“Maybe some jewelry, then,” she suggested, eyes flicking to his earring for just a second.

“Maybe. You visiting?”

She shook her head. “No, I… I just moved here a few weeks ago.”

“Ah, let me guess—you’re on summer break, wanted to get away for a few months, earn some money before college is back in?” It wasn’t unusual for the boardwalk shops to be staffed with out of town college kids looking for somewhere fun to work for the summer. 

The little smile returned, just barely bigger this time. A little exhale of amusement. “No.”

“What?” he prodded, tilting his head. “I say something funny?”

“I’m, uh… I’m just a little older than the college kids. That’s all.”

“Yeah? Me too.” Of course, no one would ever know just how much.

He dared to scooch a little closer, wanting inside the cloud of perfume that was driving him to madness. Bad idea—her eyes widened a little, and whatever ounce of relaxation he’d coaxed out of her was gone in an instant. She stiffened, stepping back.

“Um, the jewelry,” she pointed behind him, “it’s just down there by the register.”

He thought about dropping any kind of facade and just telling her he’d only come in because he’d seen her in the window, not anything else. But instead he strolled over to the little earring racks, poking around. 

“It always this dead in here?” he asked, wishing she’d come over.

She shrugged. “Well, I only just started, but… I think we’re a bit too far from the rides to get as much traffic as some of the other stores.”

“Must get a little boring.”

She said something so softly he couldn’t catch it.

“What’s that?”

“Oh, I just— I just said it’s alright. I mean, I like when it’s quiet.”

He smirked, running the back of his nails over the earrings, making them jingle just loud enough to be heard over the music. “That your way of telling me I’m disturbing your peace?”

The worried little face she made was the highlight of his night. “Wh– No! That’s not— I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I should head out anyway,” he said, coming back around to where she was standing at the counter, facing her and leaning against the glass. “Saw something I liked and ditched my friends to come in here.”

Given that he didn’t have anything in his hands to purchase, the insinuation was pretty clear, even if it was hard for her to believe. Her face went red again, hands fiddling with the rings on her fingers. 

“You got a name, Mouse?”

She blinked at him, a beat passing. “Mouse?”

He nodded simply, holding her gaze. “Mouse. That’s what you remind me of.” He could see it in her eyes that she knew he didn’t mean it as anything even close to negative.

“Caitie,” she answered softly.

“Caitie.” he repeated, testing the sound of her name, the weight of it on his tongue. “That suits you, you know. Real well.”

Her cheeks tinged deeper as she asked, “What’s yours?”

He grinned, wide and real and boyish, knocking his knuckles once against the counter. “Marko.”

He didn’t add anything, didn’t try to flourish it. Just let the exchange sit there between them like something important—he hoped it would be. He’d try his damnedest to make sure it was. 

“You work nights a lot?” he asked, hoping this wasn’t a rare shift. 

She nodded. “Pretty much always.”

“Well I’m pretty much always around, so… maybe you’ll have to deal with me coming in to disturb your peace again.”

She bit her lip, trying to suppress a smile—it didn’t work. A soft one graced her face, and though he barely got to see it before she turned and let her hair hide her away, it tugged at something in him. It was a feeling either so old he’d forgotten it, or a feeling that was completely brand new. 

“Okay,” was all she said, but it was enough.

“You know…” Marko backed slowly towards the open doors, pausing just under the threshold. She glanced up when the sound of his footsteps stopped, and he paused just to look at her. Then he smiled, and it wasn’t playful or loud. His lips curled up into something sweet and tender. Something unfamiliar. “You’re trouble, Mouse. Quiet kind. Worst kind there is.”

The look on her face told him no one had ever seen her as something dangerous before, and she wasn’t sure what to do with it—or with the fact that she liked it. 

She needed a break. Wiping her hand across her damp forehead—and unknowingly leaving a streak of dirt behind—she stood and headed over to a nearby crate sitting in the grass, beneath the lone apple tree that had luckily been part of the town for generations. Since she’d arrived there, it provided her with nearly every breakfast she’d eaten.

Even if she knew about the dirt on her face, it probably wouldn’t have mattered to her—she already felt like a mess, with scraped and dirt-covered knees, sweat-shiny skin, and soil under her fingernails.

Her canteen had been empty for the past hour, the tiny ration of sunscreen she’d put on this morning would no doubt leave her shoulders red by the end of her shift, and if one more gnat flew in her face while she was plucking dead leaves off of the tomato plants, she was sure she was going to lose it.

With a sigh she closed her eyes and leaned back against the bark of the tree, wondering if she should spare the energy to go get some more water, and hoping that the heat wave would end tomorrow. She hadn’t realized how much she’d taken the weather app on her phone for granted. Without it, it was hard to imagine the oppressive dry spell would ever end.

She was beginning to doze off, until the sound of approaching footsteps caught her attention. When she opened her eyes, her heart did that little fluttery thing it did whenever Milton was nearby—he was walking up the garden path to her, his notebook in one hand, a canteen in the other.

Even in this boiling weather, he managed to look neat. He was dressed down compared to usual: a short sleeved button down instead of a long-sleeved one, his usual boat shoes, and a pair of khaki shorts that looked maybe a size too big—probably acquired from a run.

He looked so nerdy she just wanted to… well, actually, it was far too hot to think about any of the usual things she wanted to do to Milton.

As he neared and returned her smile, though her face was already flushed from heat, she felt herself blush. This wasn’t exactly how she wanted him to see her: bangs sticking to her forehead, smelling like mulch and sweat.

“The plants don’t look so happy,” he observed, coming to stand beside her, beneath the tree.

“Neither do most of us,” she laughed. His cheeks were flushed too, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose much like hers had been all morning. It wasn’t unusual for him to leave the lab and go for a walk midday (usually stopping by to chat for a moment), but she hadn’t expected it in this weather. And yet, since the heatwave had started last week, he’d still come for a visit every day. “I saw Martinez this morning coming back from checking the perimeter, and it looked like he’d gone swimming.”

He held out his canteen to her. “You really should rehydrate.”

She blinked once, raising her eyebrows before reaching out to accept it. “You don’t mind?”

“No, I…” He shook his head. “It’s important. Unless you think it’s… hygienically dubious, or—”

Her laugh interrupted him, full of genuine amusement. “Maybe from Merle, yes. Extremely dubious. From you, I wouldn’t worry. Thank you,” she said before tilting the canteen back and taking a long sip. The water was warm, but it helped.

Milton tried—and failed—not to watch as she drank. The way her eyes shut in relief, lips pressed to the rim, a few rogue drops rolling slowly down her neck. She sighed when she finished, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as she reached out to hand the canteen back to him.

Their fingers brushed as he accepted it, a warmth flooding his body that was completely unrelated to the heatwave. She never seemed to mind when these things happened—a brush of their shoulders, hands meeting accidentally, the time he’d nearly rolled his ankle in the garden and had grabbed onto her for support without thinking.

He brought the canteen to his own lips with a trembling hand, less because he was thirsty, more because he wanted his lips to rest right where hers had been.

As he screwed the lid back on, he couldn’t help glancing at her again. Her shoulders bare, collarbones shimmering in the sunlight streaming through the leaves. Her pale skin seemed to glow, covered in flecks of dirt and patches of freckles that had emerged once she’d started spending every day in the sun. Parts of her had tanned a little, others had hints of red, as though her skin couldn't make up its mind on if it felt kissed or annoyed by the sun.

He’d never seen anything more alive, more unfairly beautiful, in his life.

He cleared his throat as he moved to sit with her on the crate, pulling a white handkerchief from his pocket. Holding the canteen between his legs, he unscrewed the lid again, pressing the fabric to the opening and turning it over to get it damp.

“You’ve got, um…” He gestured to his own face. “A little dirt.”

Her eyes widened in embarrassment for a second before she just smiled and laughed. “I have dirt on my face?”

“Just a little.” He offered the square piece of fabric to her, then pulled it back a little, hesitating. “Would you like me to…?”

She nodded, taking off her glasses and scooting a little closer. “Please.”

He cleared his throat again, moving close in turn. His free hand trembled as he reached out to place it on her shoulder, skin to skin. It was meant to steady him. Instead it made him feel like he might collapse.

He started with her forehead, gently wiping the cloth over her skin. She sighed into the motion, and he fought not to let the sound that wanted to escape him do so. She was so close that he could smell the sun-warmed green on her skin—tomato leaves, basil, earth, and the faintly sweet smell of her.

She’d left a little more behind when she’d wiped her mouth, so he used the clean side to get the space just below her lips. He met her gaze when he finished—a mistake. She was so close to him, her brown eyes looking even prettier without her glasses on.

“Thanks,” she said, a sheepish little smile on her face as she put her frames back on. “I knew I must look like a mess today, but I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“You don’t,” he said automatically, his voice soft. He hardly realized he was speaking. “You look… alive.”

Her head tilted, the sheepish smile turning into something more… coy. Almost teasing. And it dawned on him that he’d said that out loud.

“I mean… vital. Full of–uh–vigor. There’s a natural appeal to, um, sweat, and dirt. And effort. Your, uh—your humanity. It’s very… lively,” he finished weakly, turning away hurriedly and returning his hands to his lap.

She watched him toy with the edge of the handkerchief, his cheeks reddening. Whenever he got like this… the confidence that overcame her was so unfamiliar, yet so automatic. “Thank you.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, nodding, eyes still trained on his lap.

“Milton?” she asked, reaching out to brush nothing off of his shoulder—just an excuse to touch him.

He turned to her, eyes soft, voice trembling just a little. “Yes?”

“If I stop by the lab when I’m finished here, you think you might have a little iced tea left for me?”

His nod was automatic and he could feel that it was embarrassingly eager. But he was helpless. “Yes. Of course.”

“Okay, good.” She grinned. “That’ll give me two things to look forward to.”

“I’ll, um, see you in a bit, then.” He stood, tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket before setting his canteen on the crate next to her. “You should have the rest. I’ve got plenty at the lab.”

“Thank you,” she said, already picking it up for another sip. “I’ll give it back later. Promise.”

Caitie was perched languidly on the edge of Milton’s desk, her legs swinging slowly as she ate a handful of blueberries from a paper bag and sipped at her mug of iced tea. She’d been there for half an hour now, watching him label samples and making small talk, laced with occasional, quiet jokes to coax little huffs of laughter out of him.

The heatwave had left them both lazy and sleepy-eyed, their skin warm, limbs heavy. Outside, the air was still thick, but the pressure had shifted and the sunshine had disappeared behind grey clouds that neither was aware of.

She let out a sigh as she finished her last blueberries, crumpling up the bag. Under the sound, she almost didn’t hear the beginnings of rain tinkling against the tin roof of the lab.

Milton froze mid-label, both of their gazes moving to the ceiling of the windowless building. The soft sound grew steadier, an unmistakable drumming against the roof.

“Is that…?” Caitlin didn’t say the word, as if afraid she might jinx it.

“Rain.” Milton smiled back at her, his eyes lighting up. “Finally.”

He straightened from where he was hunched over beakers, looking on curiously as she hopped off the desk and headed for the door, practically skipping. “Caitie—?”

She opened it and let out a giddy laugh, pausing only long enough to kick off her sandals and leave them toppled over by the threshold. The next thing he knew, she was outside.

He hurried over just in time to see her hold her arms out and turn her face to the sky, the droplets decorating her glasses lenses, her shoulders relaxing. It wasn’t a storm, just a steady, silvery pour. Even standing in the doorway, Milton could feel the cool relief against his skin.

Inside, however, he was warmer than he had been all day, staring as Caitie took her hair down from its clip, letting the rain turn the deep brown nearly black. It clung to her skin, as did her camisole, her dampening shorts riding low on her hips. Droplets beaded on her shoulders, dripping down her arms, sliding along the curve of her throat.

Keeping her arms spread out, she laughed, low and delighted, spinning in a slow circle.

He could only look on, his heart aching in his chest. He was jealous—both of the rain for how it touched her, and of her, for how unrestrained she was.

When she laughed, it was a sound barren of any cynicism, as though she’d never known fear. As if she was oblivious to the world that had ended around her.

She looked like hope. She looked like life itself. Barefoot and open… alive in a world that had tried to kill every good thing left.

Then she turned to him and grinned, waving her arms, beckoning him outside. “Come on!” she called, her bangs plastered to her forehead, clothes already soaked through. “It feels amazing!”

He gestured helplessly at himself. “Oh, I don’t—I couldn’t. I’m not dressed for it—”

She laughed like he’d said the funniest thing she’d heard in years, and headed back over to the doorway, onto the tiny little porch so they were eye-to-eye. She was dripping from head to toe, only inches from him now.

“Shoes and socks aren’t very hard to get off,” she teased, poking one bare foot against his shoe. “Milton… You’re overheated, you’re tired, and you’ve been hunched over a microscope all day. You need this just as much as I do."

When he only looked on warily, she continued, “It’s just water.” Her smile went from teasing to something much warmer, her voice softening. “Please? Come play in the rain with me.”

How could he say no to that? He nodded, letting out a breath and toeing off his shoes, taking off his socks and tossing them in their little pile by the door—the sight of their shoes resting together filling him with an instant, domestic yearning—before following her out into the rain.

The downpour was warm and heavy, soaking his shirt through in seconds as he stepped off the porch with her into the damp soil. The cool blades of grass tickled the soles of his feet, mud squishing between his toes—he couldn’t remember the last time he’d walked barefoot outside.

Between the heavy fabric and beads of water blocking his vision, he expected to be uncomfortable. Instead, there was an odd sense of relief that overcame him, like the rain was washing away the stress of the day.

Caitie jumped into a puddle that had already formed, splashing his calves with rainwater and wet soil, a laugh escaping him without a second thought. She really was playing like a child in the rain.

When he met her eyes, shared that smile sacred to this moment only they were sharing, it was a sort of yearning he’d never experienced before. Like he was missing that moment before it had even passed.

It was as though there was no end of the world. No walkers. No Woodbury, no lab, no fences, no fear. Just rain, his wild heartbeat, and her.

He didn’t have the courage to do much other than stand there and watch, a smile planted on his face. It only faltered when she stopped in front of him, damp and dripping as she gazed into his eyes. He wondered if she had any idea how nervous she made him.

If he were a braver man, he would’ve leaned in, attempted to kiss her. Instead, he tried to say something, words he hadn’t even yet figured out. But all that came out was a sigh, lost in the sound of the downpour.

Caitie smiled and reached out, gently pushing his soaked hair off of his forehead, her hand lingering just a second longer than necessary before returning to her side. His breath caught, cheeks going pink.

She didn’t step away, and neither did he. She was close enough that their soaked clothes were nearly brushing. He could see the rain falling from her eyelashes, could smell the warm green of garden dirt and petrichor on her skin.

“I didn’t think you’d come out,” she said, voice raised a little to be heard over the rain.

“I didn’t either,” he admitted, laughing softly.

“I’m glad you did.” She turned her face to the sky again. “It’s nice, isn't it? Getting to feel something other than the heat trying to kill us?”

“Yes. It’s a relief. And remarkable, really, how fast the weather can shift when the atmospheric stability is compromised—” He cut himself off from delving into another ramble. “Sorry. You’ve been listening to my science talk for the past half hour. I shouldn’t bore you with more.”

Her head tilted again as she returned her gaze to his, her smile soft and amused. “I like your science talk.”

“Oh.” It was all he could seem to say while trying to suppress the aching in his chest, the warmth that was flooding his body. “I… I um… I like being here with you.”

She blinked, her smile growing. His fingers twitched at his sides. He was soaked to the bone. Cold now, maybe. Or just… stripped bare in a way that had nothing to do with weather. Caitie stood there in front of him looking… wild, and sacred, drenched from head to toe.

And Milton—awkward and anxious as he felt—couldn’t stop himself. He cleared his throat, looking down at the ground in order to find the courage. “All of this has been much easier to bear, with you around.”

Caitie stared at him, her expression turning from playful joy into something more like wonder. His confession wasn’t flirtatious, it was real. Raw and stammered honesty from a man who rarely said more than he meant to, who often spoke as if he was afraid that the wrong words might slip out.

She wanted to tease, to flirt, to confess. To tell him that the sentiment meant that everything she’d been through—not only since the outbreak, but before it, too—was worth it to her, if she could take even a little weight off of his shoulders.

None of the words that came to mind seemed good enough. So instead, she stepped forward and placed one hand on the side of his face, leaning in and pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, right beneath the frame of his fogged-up glasses.

“You’ve made it easier for me, too,” she finally confessed when she backed away, hoping she hadn’t misread him, hadn’t stepped over a line that he didn’t want her to cross.

The shy, boyish smile that graced his face told her that she hadn’t misread him, not at all. “That’s… I’m… Thank you,” he stammered. “I mean—I’m glad. That I’ve… That we…” He stopped trying to talk, letting out a little hum as he gave up.

She grinned, and though it was sweet and warm, she couldn’t help a little pride from showing, emboldened by the way she made him blush.

Angry thunder rolled overhead, making them both jump. With a laugh, she stepped back and took one last spin in the rain before heading back for the door. “We should get inside, dry off.”

“I thought I might never hear music again,” Cait said softly as she collected several empty tea cups and mugs from around the lab. Though she missed her own playlists more than she could say, she always enjoyed what Milton picked out from Woodbury’s small selection. More often than not it was classical, or something he’d grown up listening to in his grandparents’ home: Ella Fitzgerald, Sinatra, Nat King Cole. Cait thought he was more of a romantic than he even knew.

It was hard to believe just months ago, she was on her own and near death. Now she had shelter, warm food, music… Milton. She could survive without the rest of it again if she had to, she was sure. But not without him, not anymore.

“I gave the Governor a list of some of your favorite music,” he said simply, neatly stacking the papers strewn atop his desk. “The next time they’re looting near that old thrift store, they’ll take a look.”

Her smile was as warm and natural as the blush dusting her cheeks. Milton had visited her while she was working one morning, tending to one of the new tomato plants in the garden and humming to herself. He’d startled her a little when he spoke behind her— “That sounds nice,” he’d said. She wasn’t aware that three simple words could give her so many butterflies.

He asked what the song was, and they had a short conversation about music before he had to return to his duties. It seemed as though no matter what she told him about herself, he managed to remember it. It was an unfamiliarity she was still getting used to.

Setting down the cups in her hands, she walked over and placed a soft kiss against his cheek. “Thank you. That’s so sweet.”

“Well.” Milton was the one who was blushing now. He shrugged his shoulders. “I just hope they can find at least a few of them. The Governor did say it was picked pretty clean in there last time.”

“Doesn’t matter,” she murmured, unable to resist leaning in for another kiss against his soft skin. “It’s sweet either way.”

As the next song began Milton set down his stack of papers, adjusting them needlessly, lining them up perfectly with the folders beside them. It was a gesture of half habit, half nerves.

“C'mere.” Cait said, taking his hand and tugging him towards her. He wouldn't dream of resisting the affection, even as he stiffened up as she said, “Dance with me.”

“I… I don't know how,” he admitted, trying to remember to breathe as her arms looped over his shoulders, around his neck. 

His own hands found the dip of her waist, settling there with the lightest touch, still in disbelief that they got to hold her like this.

“Me neither,” she laughed softly, gently moving side to side. “Just sway with me then.”

He followed her movements, matching the slow rhythm of the music. For one short song, they were silent, simply enjoying the nearness. It was one thing he appreciated about her so much, that she didn’t seem to mind the quiet moments, didn’t always try to fill them. It wasn’t that he didn’t love talking to her, but that it was so rare in his life to find someone he could just be silent with. 

As another song began, neither made any move to pull away. 

“Milton…” Cait smiled softly as they swayed, bemused by the unnecessary question she was about to ask, and unable to stop herself from asking it anyway, no matter how useless of a question it was. “If things were different… if all this never happened, and we’d still met somehow…” She shrugged, feigning casualty, as if his answer didn’t have the potential to break her heart. “Do you think you still would’ve liked me?”

“Yes.” Milton’s answer came quickly, no pondering necessary. But it wasn’t the full truth. “I think…” he held her gaze, swallowing over the nervous lump in his throat, “that I would love you even if we’d never met.”

He felt the hitch in her breath as she stilled, her eyes searching his face as the music played on around them. 

Should he not have said that? It was too soon, of course it was too soon. But when death was looming over them every day, breathing down their necks, how could he be expected to keep something like that to himself? She was the only thing that seemed to make sense anymore, her and his love for her.

“You love me?” she asked softly, watching a pretty blush color his cheeks.

He nodded. “Yes. I do.” He fought the urge to ask “Is that okay?” It wasn't as if he could change it, no matter the answer.

She slipped her arms from around his shoulders and dread washed over him—she was disturbed enough by the confession that she was moving away. But then her hands were on his face, her lips pressing gently against his.

When she pulled back, his face still in her hands, her voice was dreamy as she said, “I love you too.”

The security that washed over him, the fulfilment, was almost too much to bear. He wanted to say something romantic, but could only manage a smile and a shaky, relieved sigh as he leaned into her touch, his eyes closing as his cheek rested against her hand. 

It’d been a long time since he’d accepted he’d never hear words like that from somebody. At his age, without so much as an inkling of romance in all his life, it was easy to believe it would never happen. God, he was glad to be wrong. And god, he was glad it was her. 

When he opened his eyes again, she had a look on her face that was almost… guilty. Milton tilted his head, eyebrows furrowing. His voice was soft as he prodded, “What is it?”

“Nothing.” She bit her bottom lip nervously as he kept looking at her with those pretty, curious eyes. 

With a heavy swallow, she relented. “I just can’t stop thinking lately that if all of this is what it took for us to meet…” It took her a moment to continue, to admit what she was so ashamed of. “Then I’m glad it happened.” Honesty and shame were clear in her voice as her eyes brimmed with tears. “I can’t help being grateful for it. I know that makes me selfish, I know how terrible it sounds… But I’ve never been so happy.”

Terrible wasn’t at all the word that Milton would’ve used to describe the confession. It was undoubtedly the most romantic sentiment he’d ever heard in his life.

“Then… I suppose we’re both selfish,” he assured her, the words falling from his lips with ease. If he could wish away this plague, reverse time so it never happened and never would… he wouldn’t. Not if it meant losing her.

Tucker cleared his throat, thumb jutting back in that direction. “Um. We, uh, we… Everything’s ready.” His gaze wouldn't stay on her for longer than a millisecond. “We’re going in now.”

The dark of night, the old house, the cold drafts and unexplained sounds… none of it scared Cait, because she couldn’t focus on any of it. All she could feel all night was the hot blush on her cheeks, the pit in her stomach, and the shame as she realized Tucker wasn’t looking at her, talking to her, or even standing close by. 

She tried to break the awkward tension by asking a question about some of his equipment—one of his toys as Specs had called it—but all she got in response was a split-second look her way from across the room and a matter-of-fact, grumbled answer.

She felt like such a nuisance. Why, why did she have to say what she’d said? Why couldn’t he have walked over just a few seconds later? She’d never wanted to make him uncomfortable, or make him think she’d deluded herself into thinking anything would happen between them. God, she probably sounded like some kind of stalker-fan.

Specs and Natalie kept the night from falling into one long, awkward silence, something Caitlin was extremely grateful for. The two of them were getting on great, and Steven seemed thrilled every time he got to answer one of Natalie’s inquiries about his job, the case, or the history of the house. He seemed more focused on her than the investigation.

When the night was over, all Cait could manage was a weak smile as Specs and Tucker finished loading up the van. Natalie and Specs were wrapping up a long convo—Cait would ask for all the details later. Right then, she just wanted to get out of there.

“Um, I’m gonna go warm up the car,” she interjected, gesturing to the vehicle parked down the long driveway. “Thanks,” she said, reaching out to shake Specs’s hand. “This was cool.”

He took it earnestly with a single shake, telling her it was their pleasure. “Sorry we didn’t have any sightings tonight.” He turned back to Natalie. “But I’ll be in touch as soon as we review the footage.”

Caitlin offered her hand to Tucker, because it would’ve seemed rude not to, though she really just wanted to hurry back to the car and try to forget the whole thing. She looked up to meet his eyes, and found nothing but the same unreadable gaze he’d been wearing all night. “Uh, thanks again. I appreciate you guys letting me tag along.”

His hand found hers, and she fought not to let her breath catch at the warmth of it, the way her hand felt so small in his, the fuzzy feeling that fell over her whole body.

“Yeah.” His response was simple and gruff, bringing her right back down to earth.

She took her hand from his and tried to suppress her embarrassment for the millionth time. 

The events had just kept repeating in her mind since that night. Even now at work, reorganizing the bin of clearance CDs, she could hardly focus. Specs had emailed Natalie the next day, saying nothing exciting had shown up in the footage, but that they all should do it again sometime. 

Cait gave some excuse about her work schedule being too chaotic the next few weeks—she knew Nat saw straight through it. She’d tried her best to cheer her up from her moping, insisting that she saw Tucker looking at her throughout the night. But Cait hadn’t expected Tucker to be interested in her before, and she certainly couldn’t believe he would be now.

What Cait didn’t know was that Tucker was interested. Beyond interested. He’d been interested ever since he and Specs had met Natalie at the comic shop and she’d mentioned that her friend would be excited to meet him. He thought maybe she’d been insinuating something along the lines of attraction. Then he’d met Caitie and hoped to God that’s what she’d been insinuating. 

She was pretty. She was sweet. Hell, she even smelled sweet, better than the little snack cake he was eating. When she shook his hand hello and looked up at him with those kind brown eyes, he felt a surge of confidence—he wouldn’t blow this. If he had a chance with her, he wasn’t about to screw it up.

Then he’d overheard her confession to Natalie. Like meeting her celebrity crush. She wasn’t just maybe a little interested in him… she really had a thing for him. It should’ve made him ecstatic… but what if he didn’t live up to whatever she thought he’d be like in person? What if he said the wrong thing and made her reevaluate, what if spending time with him made her realize she was completely out of his league? What if he came off a lot cooler in the videos, what if he looked better on camera? What if they had nothing in common? What if he couldn’t think of anything funny to say?

The confidence disappeared in an instant. Too worried about saying the wrong thing, he barely said anything all night. He was so self-conscious he could hardly look at her, let alone talk to her.

When the night was over and she’d said goodbye, he felt… well, he wasn’t sure, exactly. He hadn’t been suave or smooth like he’d hoped, but at least he didn’t embarrass himself. Given how chatty Specs and Natalie had been, he was sure it wasn’t the last time he’d get to see Cait—they could all hang out again sometime, he thought. 

That was, until Specs got in the passenger's seat of the van as Cait and Natalie drove away.

“What is your problem?” Specs asked, buckling up.

Tucker raised an eyebrow, his lip curling at the unexpected attitude. “What?”

Specs huffed, as if it was obvious. “If you don’t wanna make friends with them, that’s none of my business. But they’re, like, fans of ours. Is it too much to ask for you to act professional?”

Tucker could only scoff, moving his hands out in a gesture of what the fuck are you talking about? “Name one thing I did that was unprofessional.”

“Uh, the entire thing. You were acting like you’d rather’ve been at jury duty, Tucker.” Specs shook his head as Tucker started backing out of the driveway. “Like the whole thing was some kind of inconvenience. If you didn’t want to do it, you should’ve just told me—I could’ve gone solo.”

“You don’t even know how to use half that stuff,” Tucker grumbled under his breath. Had he really seemed so uninterested?

“It’s too bad, really.” Specs’ voice lost its hostility as he relaxed against his seat. “I was hoping she’d be your type.”

“What?”

“I mean…” Specs shrugged. “If Natalie and I ever… If we ever became… involved… I guess I just mean it would’ve been convenient if you’d been interested in Caitlin. We’re friends, they’re friends. Makes things simple.”

Tucker stopped at a red light and glared over at Specs. His interest in Natalie wasn’t the bombshell he seemed to think it might be—it’d been obvious since they’d met her. What tripped Tucker up was the way his own best friend had completely misread him. If he thought that… what must Cait have thought? 

“I never said I wasn’t interested.”

Specs turned to him with a laugh, which quickly fell into a look of stupefaction. “You’re serious.” He blinked a few times before his expression changed to one of understanding, then pity. “Tucker.”

Tucker’s heart sank. Had it really been that bad? He tried to convince himself it wasn’t, that Specs was exaggerating. He’d been too focused on Natalie to be paying much attention to anything else, anyway. That was it.

A few days later, he came up to Specs as he was sitting at his laptop to ask if he’d set anything up yet for them all to hang out again, maybe do another investigation together. Specs grimaced, and explained in the gentlest way he could: Natalie was down for another hunt together. Caitlin…

“Says she’s too busy,” Specs said, not sounding like he believed it. 

Incredible, Tucker thought. For once in his life he’d had a chance with a woman—a woman who was nice, who was cute, who found his work interesting, who’d been wearing the t-shirt of a band he loved, who was attracted to him… and he managed to throw it away in a few hours. 

He sighed, doing his best to keep a poker face, though he was sure Specs saw right through it. Who wouldn’t be disappointed?

“Uh, our new business cards are ready,” Specs said, trying to cheer him up. “The printer called while you were in the shower.”

“I’ll pick ‘em up.” He tried not to sound so depressed, but his voice came out gruff and unexcited anyway. “What’d’you want for lunch?”

“Oh!” Specs perked up, jotting something down on his notepad before ripping off the page and handing it to Tucker. “It’s a new sandwich place Natalie told me about. Thought you might be interested. I'll look up the menu and text you what I want.”

Tucker grumbled out an agreement, tucking the paper into his pocket and heading to the front door.

Unfortunately, the mindless errand didn't do much to cheer him up, even if the business cards did look great. As he parked in an area of town he wasn't too familiar with, he hoped this new sandwich place was good—good enough to take his mind off things.

Walking up to the restaurant, he passed by a second hand CD store. He'd have to stop by sometime when he wasn’t so bummed out. Looking through the window, he could see they also had a small selection of tapes in the back, a large area for records, and rows and rows of neatly organized CDs. Closer to the door there was a bin with a large clearance sign over it, and a tall brunette who was sifting through it. Great, just another reminder of—

He felt himself freeze as she turned, her long waves moving out of her face as she continued to browse. It was Caitlin.

He swore under his breath, turning away, stepping out of the view of the window and running a hand over his hair. Shit, his hair— he hadn’t even done his mohawk before leaving the house. He wasn’t ready, hadn’t prepared himself, had resigned himself to the idea that he’d never see her again. 

He couldn’t go in there. But if he didn’t… if he didn’t, what if he really never did get to see her again? What if this was his last chance?

He rolled his shoulders back, clearing his throat and straightening out his t-shirt. He’d just go in there and talk to her. Like a normal person. 

The bell above the door jingled as he entered the store—apart from Cait, there was only an employee behind the counter and a few teenagers looking at the records in the corner. 

“Hi, welcome to CD Sanctuary! Is there—” Caitie’s greeting stopped short as she looked up from the bin and met Tucker’s eyes. She paused for a second, her voice much softer when she spoke again. “Hi.”

God, she looked good in the daylight, he thought, taking her in. She was wearing a black camisole, camouflage cargo pants that sat low on her hips, and a roughed up pair of Chucks. Despite the simple outfit, somehow he’d never seen anyone look better in anything.

“Hi,” he managed, feeling stupid as he realized she wasn't shopping, she was working. This was a bad idea. He shouldn’t have come in.

“I… um…” She shook her head, laughing quietly. “Sorry. Are you looking for something specific?”

He felt his stomach drop a little as she picked up with her employee greeting. “No, I… I just came in ‘cause… ‘cause I saw you.”

“...You did?”

The baffled surprise in her voice told him Specs was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He really must’ve been giving the completely wrong signals that night. 

“I, uh… I thought maybe we could talk.”

Caitie shot a glance over to the register, raising her voice a little. “Sure, I can help you find that!” She nodded for Tucker to follow her into one of the aisles of CDs, giving him an apologetic look as she lowered her voice again. “Sorry. My boss. He’s a little strict.”

“I don’t wanna get you in trouble,” he murmured, gesturing towards the door. “I can go—”

“Don’t.” She shook her head, stopping in front of a section that spanned from Rage Against the Machine to Red Hot Chili Peppers. She pretended to rifle through one of the rows. “It’s—I… I’ve been wanting to talk to you, actually. I mean, to apologize.”

His brows furrowed as he looked down at her. He could smell the same sweet, fruity perfume she’d been wearing the night they met, and had to resist the overwhelming urge to lean down and bury his nose against her neck. “Apologize?” 

She looked up at him briefly before her gaze returned to the CDs. “Yeah. Um… I’m really sorry for the other night. I didn’t mean for you to overhear… what you heard. I know you probably must think I’m some kind of creep. And I know it weirded you out, and I just…” She shook her head. “I’m just sorry.”

“I wasn’t weirded out.”

She finally looked up at him and held his gaze, her eyes filled with confusion.

“I was…” The admission was hard to get out. “Nervous.”

“Nervous?” she repeated quietly, like she wasn't sure if it was good or bad.

“Nervous… that you might, uh, not like me as much in person. Nervous because…” He shrugged, smiling a little. What did he have to lose? “Because I would've been nervous around you whether I heard you say that or not.”

Was he getting his point across? Where was the line drawn between subtlety and failure to communicate? Hell if he knew.

But when he saw her cheeks flush red, he knew she understood: this wasn't a one-sided attraction. 

“Oh,” was all she said in reply, her face glowing warmer as she smiled.

He couldn't help feeling a surge of pride. He was responsible for that smile, that pretty blush.

“I thought, maybe, y'know, if you're not too busy, we could… have dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, or coffee, or something… together. Sometime. As a date.” He was sure he sounded like an idiot, barely able to think straight, but she was still smiling. What else mattered?

She bounced a little on her heels, gently biting her bottom lip, but unable to dim her grin. “I– Yeah, I mean, of course. Yeah. That'd be nice.”

A smile broke out on his face, the warm rush of relief flooding over his body. She said yes. Yes, to a date, with him. It would be the first date of his life. 

Tucker got his phone from his pocket, pulling up his contacts and handing it to her. “We can plan it later, if you want. When your boss isn't watching.”

She should've known better than to think he was interested in her. He stopped by her job to find a cologne and ate lunch with her as a friend, nothing more. She'd read too much into it, got caught up in optimism thanks to her own silly little crush on him.

She just had to convince herself to make the first move, had to step out of her comfort zone and kiss him like that. He was just so… sweet. So cute. And god, she needed to stop thinking about him. As far as signals went, this one was crystal clear: he wasn't interested. And why should he be?

With a sigh, she picked out her usual bag of maple flavored oats and dropped it in her cart. The truth was, they hardly knew each other. Hell, that was probably half the reason she’d misread the situation, thought maybe he felt the same way, that all that shy awkwardness from the first time they'd met had been an indicator of something more than just… well, Richie being shy and awkward. 

It was fine—she'd get over it, she’d be mature and they would stay friends. But she couldn't deny there was a part of her heart that'd been hopeful.

Caitie started out of the aisle, turned her cart, and wheeled right into a clanging, head on collision with someone else's cart.

"I'm so sorry!" The words escaped her automatically before she even looked up—then her eyes met the ones she hadn't been able to get off her mind. "Richie—!" She wasn't sure what to say, especially not with him staring wide-eyed at her like he'd just run into the last person he wanted to see. "Um—Hi. Sorry."

The reality was that she was half right about him avoiding her. Richie's heart sank when they locked eyes, not because he didn't want to see her—God did he want to see her—but because he wasn't ready. He'd spent the last week trying and failing to be ready.

He shook his head after a few more awkward seconds, snapping out of his daze. "No!" The word came out too loud, too enthusiastic. "No," he tried again, "My fault. Hi."

"I didn't know you shop here. I mean, I've never seen you before." Her fingers fidgeted on the handle of her cart. 

"Only every now and then—they have a certain cereal Howie likes. My brother," he added.

She nodded, giving a small smile. "I remember. You mentioned him at the movies."

"Right!" He exclaimed a little too enthusiastically again, pointing at her as he trailed off, "Good memory. I… Yeah. Forgot about that." All he could really remember from that night was trying his hardest not to embarrass himself. That and the way her perfume smelled, the brush of her hand when he passed her the popcorn, and how his heart pounded every time she got close to him. Sitting next to her for the entire movie nearly killed him.

"I'm sorry," Caitie blurted, gaze dropping from his. "For, um, what I did at the mall. Kissing you, I mean."

And there it was. The regretful words, the rejection he'd unconsciously been avoiding. He wasn't putting off seeing her just because he didn't know how to ask her out. He'd been putting it off because deep down, he knew she'd probably written off the whole thing as a mistake right after it happened.

He forced himself to shrug. "Uh… That's… You don't have to apologize." He prepared himself for the speech: she hadn't meant to lead him on, it was just a friendly kiss. All the things he'd tried to convince himself she wouldn't say.

"I didn't mean to make things weird," she continued. "I think I just got the wrong message, you know, mistaking kindness for flirting. It's my fault."

"You—Huh?" He blinked, repeating the words in his head, trying to make sense of them. She couldn’t possibly mean what it sounded like she meant.

"I know, it's stupid." She ran a hand through her hair. "I guess part of it was wishful thinking that you felt the same, or—" She grimaced, shaking her head, placing her palm against her forehead. "Sorry. Making it awkward again. It's just—we have mutual friends, and I don't want things to be weird. So they won't be, is what I'm trying to say. I'm fine with just being friends. We can just forget the kiss-thing ever happened, if you're not upset."

"Upset? You think—" He had to let out a laugh, but immediately felt guilty for the obvious confusion on her face. "I was not upset by the kiss-thing. I was very much a fan of the kiss-thing." 

"You…” Her furrowed brow softened, tense shoulders relaxing. “Really?" 

"I know I kind of disappeared, I just…" He flushed at the embarrassing truth. "I’ve been wanting to ask you out, but… didn't really know how. Then I sorta psyched myself out. Thought you'd turn me down."

She shook her head, smiling softly. "I wouldn't." 

"Well, in that case…" He looked up at her with a sly, playful smirk, though his body was swaying side-to-side with restless nerves. "I know you got an invite to Gus' barbecue, so… What if we went together? As a date?"

She couldn’t hold back a grin as she nodded, cheeks flushing with color. “I’d like that.”

“Me too.” He held her gaze for a few seconds, realized he was staring, and cleared his throat as he turned to gauge the check-out lines, attempting to look nonchalant, as if this wasn’t the first time anyone had agreed to go on a date with him. “I’ve got practice with the guys in an hour, so I should get out of here. But I’ll see you Saturday?”

“I’ll be there.” She gave him one last smile before wheeling her cart past him—but when she got close he couldn’t help thinking of the last time they’d parted ways, and couldn’t resist placing a hand on her shoulder, stopping her just long enough for him to lean up and plant a quick peck on her cheek.

It all happened fast enough for him to not overthink it, until he backed up and saw her flushed face and smile of surprise. Then his head seemed to catch up with his body, and all the suave confidence he could muster evaporated into thin air.

“Um—” he squeaked out, pointing to the registers at the other end of the store with a nervous laugh. “Okay. See you. Bye.”

She blushes, raising a shoulder. "Just 'cause."

"I like that reason." He takes the cups from her and sets them down too so he can wrap his arms around her midsection. "Mind if I borrow it?"

He leans up to kiss her on the mouth, pulling back to mumble, “How’s that just ‘cause?” with a little smile. She moves to kiss him again, but Becky’s voice has them flinching apart in surprise.

"Guys," Becky whines as she enters the kitchen, gesturing impatiently to the forgotten plates and cups. "Can't you try not to be gross while the team's here? One of the guys might see you."

Danny laughs, letting go of Cait. "I think they'd live, Becky."

"Sorry, Beck," Caitie apologizes with a smile, reaching for the cups again.

"We're not gross, by the way," Danny teases. "Your cousin Debbie called us cute yesterday, you know."

Becky rolls her eyes, but smiles. "Debbie finds a lot of nauseating stuff cute."

The couple laughs as she strolls back out of the room, and Danny picks up the plates and napkins.