Her phone buzzed at 6:47 PM, and Sofia's heart performed the familiar gymnastic it had been doing all afternoon.
On my way.
Two words. From Liam. She'd been staring at her closet for forty-three minutes, which felt like a confession she wasn't ready to make. Every outfit she tried on was either too much or not enough, too cold for February or too desperate, like she was trying too hard or not hard enough.
She settled on jeans that fit her hips the way she liked and a dark green sweater she'd bought at a thrift store with Jenna, soft from years of someone else's washing. Silver studs in her ears. Hair down, because he'd said once, weeks ago, that he liked it down, and she'd stored that information like a secret.
She was ready. She wasn't ready. She checked her reflection three times, then forced herself to walk away from the mirror.
The downstairs door buzzed at 7:02.
Sofia grabbed her coat and her keys and her phone and her nerve, which was somewhere under her ribs, beating hard enough to hurt. The stairwell was cold. Her boots echoed on the concrete. She pushed open the front door and stepped into the February air, and there he was.
Liam was leaning against the driver's side of his car — an old gray sedan she'd seen in the school parking lot but never thought much about — and he was holding a flower. One flower. Yellow, slightly wilted at the edges, like it had been in his pocket or his hand for too long, but he was holding it like it was made of glass, like it was the most important thing he'd carried all day.
He was wearing his usual gray hoodie, but he'd put on a jacket over it, and his hair was damp at the ends like he'd showered recently. He saw her and straightened, and something in his face — the way his eyes caught hers, the small breath he took — made her chest ache before he'd even spoken.
"Hey."
His voice was rough, quiet, like he'd been waiting and thinking and not sure what to do with his hands.
"Hey," she said, and she was smiling before she meant to, the nerves dissolving into something warmer.
He held out the flower. "It's not much."
Sofia took it. The stem was slightly bent, the petals soft against her fingers. A grocery store rose, the kind you bought in plastic wrap at the checkout counter, the kind that would probably droop by morning. She laughed — a real laugh, surprised out of her — and brought it to her nose. It barely smelled. She didn't care.
"It's perfect," she said.
She stepped forward and kissed his cheek, quick and soft, her lips grazing the edge of his jaw where the cold had already touched his skin. When she pulled back, his ears were red. Bright red, visible even in the dim light of the streetlamp.
"Your ears," she said.
His hand went to one of them, self-conscious. "What about them?"
"They're red."
"It's cold."
"It's February."
"Exactly."
She was still smiling. He was trying not to, but the corner of his mouth was giving him away.
He turned and opened the passenger door for her — actually opened it, waited, his hand on the frame like he was protecting the space inside. She slid in, and the seat was warm from the heater he must have turned on before she came down. The car smelled like him. Detergent and something clean, the faint trace of the mint gum he chewed after meals.
"Thank you," she said.
He nodded, closed the door carefully, and she watched through the window as he walked around the front of the car. He stopped for a second before opening the driver's side door. A breath. His shoulders rising and falling. Like he was steadying himself for something that mattered.
The door opened, and he climbed in, and the car suddenly felt smaller, warmer, full of him.
He started the engine, then just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield at nothing.
"I'm nervous," he said.
The honesty of it hit her somewhere soft. "Me too."
He looked at her then, really looked, his pale blue eyes finding hers in the dark of the car. "You don't have to be."
"I know. I still am."
He nodded like that made sense, and she felt him relax, just slightly, like her admission had given him permission to be nervous too.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"There's this place. It's not fancy. But they have good burgers, and the milkshakes are — I mean, they're fine. Good. They're good." He was rambling. Liam Gallagher, who barely spoke three sentences in class, was rambling about milkshakes, and Sofia wanted to kiss him again, right there, before they'd even left the curb.
"I like milkshakes," she said.
He exhaled. "Okay. Good. Cool."
He pulled away from the curb, and she watched his hands on the wheel — the way his fingers flexed, the way he checked the rearview mirror twice before merging. He drove like he did everything else: carefully, deliberately, like he was thinking three moves ahead.
The restaurant was a diner off the main road, the kind with red vinyl booths and a neon sign that buzzed faintly in the window. It was almost empty — a Tuesday night in late January, too early for the late crowd, too late for the dinner rush. They slid into a booth near the back, and the vinyl creaked under them, and the heat of the room made the flower in Sofia's hand feel realer, more permanent.
She set it on the table between them, the yellow petals bright against the worn Formica.
"You don't have to keep it out," he said. "It's kind of sad looking."
"I like it."
"It's wilted."
"I like it because it's from you."
He looked down at the menu, but she saw the smile he was trying to hide. His ears were pink again.
They ordered. Burgers and fries and a chocolate milkshake with two straws, which he'd suggested and then immediately looked like he regretted suggesting, like it was too much, too soon, too couple-y. She took both straws out of their wrappers and stuck them into the shake before he could take it back.
"There," she said. "Now we have to share."
He looked at the two straws, then at her, and something in his face shifted — softened, opened. "Yeah," he said, quiet. "I guess we do."
They ate. The food was good, simple, the kind of meal that didn't demand attention, so they could focus on each other. She told him about her shift at the café — the customer who'd complained that his latte was too hot, which was the entire point of a latte, and how Jenna had laughed so hard she'd snorted through her nose. He told her about Marcus, who'd spent the entire day texting him variations of "so it's happening tonight" until Liam had threatened to block his number.
"He's excited for me," Liam said, and it sounded like he was still figuring out how to feel about that. "He's been — I mean, he knew. About you. Before I even said anything."
"How?"
He shrugged, reaching for a fry. "I guess I was kind of obvious."
"Were you?"
"I stared at you for three weeks before you said anything."
Sofia felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I stared at you for two."
"So we're both idiots."
"Maybe." She dipped a fry in ketchup, ate it, watched him watch her. "But we got here eventually."
"Yeah." His voice dropped, quieter, meant for her. "We did."
Under the table, his knee touched hers. She didn't move. Neither did he.
They finished eating, and he paid before she could reach for her wallet — a small argument that ended when he said, "I asked you out. Let me prove I meant it." She let him win, but only because of how he said it, like it mattered to him in a way that was bigger than money.
Outside, the cold hit them again, and she shivered before she could help it. He noticed. He took off his jacket — the one over his hoodie — and held it out to her.
"I'm fine," she said.
"You're shivering."
"It's not that cold."
"You're lying."
She was. She took the jacket. It was warm from his body, smelled like him, and she pulled it around her shoulders and felt something settle in her chest, something quiet and sure.
"Thank you."
He nodded, then reached out and took her hand in the parking lot, his fingers threading through hers like they'd been doing this for months, not days.
They walked to the car, and he opened the door for her again, and this time when he closed it and walked around to the driver's side, she watched him not take a breath. He just got in, started the engine, and looked at her.
"Can I take you somewhere?"
"Where?"
"There's a place. Not far. I go there sometimes. When I need to think."
"Tonight?"
He shook his head. "I don't need to think tonight. I just — want to show you."
She nodded, and he drove.
The place was a lookout point at the end of a winding road, a small gravel turnout that overlooked the valley. The city lights spread out below them like a circuit board, tiny and distant, and the sky was clear enough to see stars above the glow of streetlights and traffic.
He parked, killed the engine, and the silence rushed in — the hum of the cooling engine, the distant sound of a highway, their breathing.
"I found this place last year," he said, his hands still on the wheel, his gaze fixed on the lights below. "When I was trying to decide if I should apply to colleges out of state. I came here a lot."
Sofia's chest tightened. Out of state. The words sat in the air between them, unclaimed, waiting.
"Did you?" she asked. "Apply out of state?"
"I got in somewhere. In California."
California. Three hours by plane. A whole country away from her.
"That's —" She stopped. Swallowed. "That's far."
"I didn't accept it."
She turned to look at him. He was still staring at the lights, but his jaw was tight, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
"Liam —"
"I didn't accept it because I met you. Because I sat down next to you in math class and you smelled like vanilla and you bit your lip when you were thinking, and I knew —" He stopped, pressed his palm flat against the wheel, let out a breath. "I knew I wasn't done with you yet. And I didn't want to leave something that hadn't even started."
Sofia didn't know what to say. The words were too big, too much, too everything. She reached across the console and put her hand over his, and he turned his hand over, letting her fingers slide between his.
"You gave up California for me?"
"I chose you," he said, and it was different, the way he said it. Not a sacrifice. A decision. "I chose what I wanted more."
She couldn't breathe. The city lights blurred. She blinked, and a tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away before he could see, but he saw. He always saw.
"Hey." He reached for her, his thumb brushing the tear track on her cheek. "Hey. I didn't say it to make you cry."
"I know." Her voice cracked. "I know. I just — no one's ever chosen me like that."
"Then they were idiots."
She laughed, wet and broken, and he pulled her closer, his hand moving to the back of her neck, his forehead resting against hers in the dark of the car.
"I love you," he said. "I know it's fast. I know we've only been doing this for a few days. But I love you, Sofia."
"I love you too."
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. His lips warm against hers, his hand gentle on her neck, and she felt the kiss in her chest, in her stomach, in the tips of her fingers. It tasted like salt from her tears and chocolate from the shared milkshake and something that was just him, just Liam, just the boy who'd chosen her.
When they broke apart, he was crying too, just a little, the tears catching the light from the dashboard.
"This is a good first date," she whispered.
He laughed, startled, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. Best one I've ever been on."
"How many have you been on?"
"Counting this one? One."
He laughed again, and she loved the sound of it, loved that she could make him laugh, loved that he was hers.
They sat in the dark for a long time, holding hands across the console, watching the city breathe below them. He talked about his plans — a state school, three hours north, not California, still close enough to drive. She talked about hers — community college for now, transferring after she figured out what she wanted, trying not to panic about the future.
"You'll figure it out," he said. "You're the smartest person I know."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're just too nice to say it."
She smiled, and she felt it — the future, with him in it, taking shape in the dark.
Later, he drove her home. He walked her to her door, his hand in hers, and when they reached the entrance to her building, he pulled her close under the flickering light of the porch.
"I had a really good time tonight," he said.
"Me too."
"Can I see you tomorrow?"
"I have class."
"After class?"
She smiled. "Yes."
He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand on her waist and the other cradling her jaw like she was something precious, something he was still learning how to hold. She leaned into him, her body fitting against his, and for a moment she forgot the cold, forgot the future, forgot everything except his mouth on hers.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, his voice rough. "I'll text you when I get home."
"Okay."
He kissed her forehead, then let her go, and she watched him walk back to his car, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders squared like he was the luckiest guy in the world.
She went inside, the flower still in her hand, and she set it on her nightstand in a glass of water before she even took off her coat.
Her phone buzzed at 10:14 PM.
I'm home.
She smiled at the screen, her heart full to bursting.
Good. Sleep well.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I'd rather be with you.
She pressed her phone to her chest, the screen warm against her palm, and she let herself feel it — the weight of being chosen, the wonder of being wanted, the terrifying, exhilarating truth that she had finally, finally found someone worth staying for.
Me too, she typed. But tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
She put her phone on the nightstand, turned off the light, and lay in the dark with the smell of Liam's jacket still on her skin and the taste of chocolate milkshake still on her lips.