Riley woke to a rectangle of morning sun on the wall, the light falling across the faded paint like a blade laid flat. He blinked at it, his eyes adjusting, the warmth of the beam reaching across the room to touch his bare shoulder.
His phone was on the nightstand where he'd left it. The screen was dark, but he could feel the weight of it from here, the pull of whatever waited on the other side of that black glass.
He reached for it. The sheets shifted around his waist. The rectangle of sun held steady on the wall, patient, indifferent to whatever was about to change.
The phone lit under his thumb. One notification.
Jasmine: Six hours, giant. I'm ordering extra pork.
He read it twice. The words were light, playful—that was Jasmine's whole thing, the brightness she threw at everything like confetti. But the number sat in his chest differently. Six hours. Six hours until he was sitting across from her at a ramen shop on Fourth Street, alone, a date he'd agreed to, a date the whole group had agreed to, a date Inde had proposed.
He set the phone down. Picked it up again. Read the message a third time.
Extra pork.
He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The rectangle of sun hadn't moved. The ceiling above his bed was the same ceiling it had always been—a little cracked, a little yellowed, a water stain in the corner that looked vaguely like a question mark.
He stared at it. The warmth of last night's texts—Inde's goodnight, his smile in the dark, the sense that something had settled between them—was still there, somewhere beneath his ribs. But it was curdling. Turning into something heavier, something that pressed on his chest like a weight he couldn't name.
He sat up. The sheet fell to his waist. The air in the apartment was cool, the kind of cool that comes with early autumn mornings, and he felt it on his skin like a question he wasn't ready to answer.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. His feet found the worn carpet, the same worn carpet where they'd all sat for game night, where Jasmine had stretched her long legs out and Jessica had leaned into his shoulder and Natalie had shuffled cards with that quiet focus of hers. Where Inde had pressed her hand to his chest and kept it there.
He walked to the window. The blinds were half-closed, the way he'd left them last night, and he pushed one slat aside with his finger. Morning light fell across the parking lot outside. A car was pulling out, someone heading to work or class or somewhere that wasn't here, and he watched it go, feeling the strangeness of being still while the world moved around him.
Six hours.
He let the slat fall back into place. Turned. The apartment was quiet—the refrigerator humming its low hum, the pipes settling somewhere in the walls, the sound of his own breathing filling the space like it was the only thing that mattered.
He moved to the living room without deciding to. His feet took him there, past the kitchen counter where the coffee maker sat cold and empty, past the couch where they'd all piled in for spin the bottle, past the spot on the floor where he'd broken down crying with Inde's arms around him.
He stopped in the middle of the room. The sun was coming through the window here too, a wide rectangle of light falling across the worn carpet, and he was standing in it. The warmth touched his bare chest, his shoulders, his face, and for a moment he just stood there, letting it.
His phone was still in his hand. He hadn't put it down. He looked at the screen again—Jasmine's text still there, still waiting, still six hours away—and then he locked it and set it on the kitchen counter face-down, as if that could make time slow down.
He rubbed his face with both hands. His jaw was tight. He hadn't noticed until now, but his shoulders were tight too, the way they got before a swim meet, that coiled tension that meant his body knew something his mind hadn't caught up to yet.
He took a breath. Let it out. The rectangle of sun held steady on the carpet, and he was still standing in it, and nothing had changed, and everything had changed, and he didn't know what to do with his hands.
The knock came soft. Three taps. The rhythm he already knew.
His head lifted. His heart did something complicated—a skip, a stutter, a settling—and he was moving before he'd decided to, crossing the living room in four long strides, his bare feet silent on the worn carpet.
He reached the door. His hand found the handle. He paused for half a second, his thumb pressed against the cool metal, and then he opened it.
Inde stood in the doorway.
She was wearing his gray Henley. It hung past her thighs, the hem skimming her knees, the collar slipped slightly off one shoulder in that way that made his chest go tight. Her hair was loose, falling dark and straight past her shoulders, and her dark eyes were fixed on his face with that quiet intensity he was still learning how to hold.
She had a coffee cup in each hand. Steam rose from both, curling into the morning air, and the smell of it reached him—dark roast, the kind he drank black, the kind she'd noticed he ordered at Mike's diner the morning she'd stayed over.
He looked at her. She looked at him. The silence held between them, full of everything they hadn't said yet, and then she tilted her head slightly, the corner of her mouth lifting in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Figured you'd need fuel," she said, her voice low and warm, "before you go charm Jasmine."
The coffee cups stayed in her hands. She didn't move to hand one over. She just stood there, in his doorway, in his shirt, holding two cups of coffee like it was the most natural thing in the world, like she belonged here, like she'd always belonged here.
He opened his mouth. Closed it, and tilted his head to the side in approval. The words were somewhere in his chest, but they were caught on something, tangled in the warmth of seeing her, in the weight of what she was offering—not just the coffee, but the moment. The way she'd come here, early, without being asked. The way she was looking at him now, patient and steady, asking nothing but giving everything.
He realized he was still standing in the doorway, bare-chested, in nothing but the sweatpants he'd slept in. He hadn't thought about it until now—hadn't thought about the way the morning light was falling across his shoulders, the way his swimmer's build was visible in the open door, the way her eyes had dropped to his chest for half a second when he'd first opened the door.
She didn't look away. Didn't pretend she hadn't noticed. Her eyes came back up to his, steady, unashamed, and she held out one of the cups.
"Here." Her voice was soft, but there was something underneath it—something that might have been a question, might have been an offer, might have been both. "Before it gets cold."
He reached for it. His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup—warm, callused, the hands of someone who did things without talking about them—and the touch lingered for a moment longer than it needed to.
The silence held.
She was still looking at him. Waiting. The question she hadn't asked was alive in the space between them, and he could feel it pressing on his chest, asking him to answer something he wasn't sure he knew how to put into words.
She'd said before you go charm Jasmine, and the words were still hanging in the air, light and easy, but he could feel the weight underneath them. She was giving him permission. She was also asking him if he needed it.
The coffee was warm in his hand. The sun was falling across both of them now, spilling through the open door, catching the dark of her hair and the gray of his Henley and the steam still rising from the cups.
She waited.
And the silence held, full of everything he still needed to say.
He looked down at the coffee cup in his hand. The ceramic was warm, ordinary, a thing he'd held a thousand times before. But it felt different now—heavier, like it was carrying more than just coffee. Like it was carrying the fact that she'd remembered how he took it. That she'd woken up early, made the trip to his apartment, stood in his doorway in his shirt, because she knew he'd need fuel before a date with someone else.
The Henley had slipped a little further off her shoulder. Just a fraction, barely noticeable—the kind of shift that happened when someone moved their arm, adjusted their weight. But he noticed. He noticed the way the fabric hung on her frame, soft and worn and familiar, the collar stretched from the times he'd pulled it over his own head. It smelled like him. He wondered if she'd worn it on purpose, or if she'd just grabbed it this morning because it was there, because it was hers now as much as his.
The steam from her cup rose between them, curling in the morning light, and he watched it for a moment—the way it twisted and dissolved, the way it was here and then gone, the way it left nothing behind but the memory of warmth.
"You didn't have to," he said. His voice came out rougher than he'd expected, still thick with sleep, or maybe with all the things he hadn't said yet. "Come all this way. I could've—"
"I know." She said it simply, without emphasis, like it wasn't a point she needed to make. "I wanted to."
He looked at her. The morning light caught the dark of her hair, the curve of her jaw, the fine lines at the corners of her eyes that came from a lifetime of watching, of seeing, of holding things in her chest that she never quite let out. She wasn't pushing. She wasn't asking. She was just there, in his doorway, holding the moment like it was something fragile and precious and worth keeping.
He lifted the cup to his mouth and took a sip. The coffee was hot, dark, bitter in the way he liked it—no sugar, no cream, just the raw edge of the roast. It was the same way he'd ordered it at Mike's diner, the morning she'd stayed over, the morning she'd watched him drink it and then filed the information away without saying anything.
She must have noticed. She must have remembered.
The warmth spread through his chest, and he let it settle there, let it mix with the other warmth that was already living beneath his ribs—the warmth of seeing her, of her standing here, of her having noticed the small thing and turned it into this.
"It's good," he said. His voice was steadier now. "Thank you."
She tilted her head slightly, that small gesture she had, the one that meant she was listening to more than just his words. "You didn't sleep well."
It wasn't a question. He felt the accuracy of it land somewhere in his chest, the way she'd seen something he hadn't said, the way she always seemed to see.
"I slept fine," he said. Then, after a beat: "Eventually."
Her mouth curved. Not quite a smile, but close. "Eventually."
He shifted his weight. The floor was cool under his bare feet, the worn carpet soft and familiar. He was still standing in the doorway, half in his apartment and half out, the morning air touching his bare shoulders, the sun falling across his chest. He should probably put a shirt on. He should probably say something that made sense.
Instead, he lifted the coffee cup again. Took another sip. Let the warmth hold him steady.
"Jasmine's text came in this morning," he said. The words were out before he'd decided to say them, and he felt them land in the space between them, a weight he was giving her to hold. "Six hours, she said. She's ordering extra pork."
Inde's expression didn't change. She just looked at him, her dark eyes steady, the steam from her own cup rising and dissolving between them.
"She's excited," Inde said. "That's good."
It was. He knew it was. Jasmine was the one who'd claimed first dibs, the one who'd picked the spot, the one who'd been bright and forward and unmistakably clear about what she wanted. And he wanted to be excited too. He wanted to feel the lightness that Jasmine always seemed to carry, the way she threw herself into things without hesitation.
But standing here, in this doorway, with Inde's warmth in his hand and her patience in the space between them, the excitement felt distant—like something he was supposed to feel but couldn't quite reach.
Her gaze held his. The silence stretched, comfortable and waiting, and he could feel the shape of it around them—the shape of her presence, the shape of what she was offering without asking for anything in return.
He shifted his weight from one bare foot to the other. The coffee cup was warm in his hand, grounding him, and he looked at her again—the Henley slipping a little more off her shoulder, the steam rising from her cup, the way she was just standing there, waiting, not pushing.
"You should come in," he said. The words came out before he'd fully decided to say them, but once they were out, they felt right. "I mean—if you want to. It's still early. You could stay for a bit."
Her mouth did that thing again—the almost-smile that reached her eyes before it reached her lips. "I'd like that."
She stepped forward, and he moved aside to let her pass, the space between them narrowing for just a second as she crossed the threshold. He caught the scent of her—soap, coffee, the faint familiar smell of his own detergent from the Henley—and it settled something in his chest that he hadn't realized was unmoored.
He closed the door behind her. The latch clicked into place, and the sound was small, ordinary, but it felt like a seal on something—like the morning was now officially theirs, whatever it held.
Inde walked into his living room, her bare feet silent on the worn carpet. She stopped in the middle of the rectangle of sun that was still falling across the floor, the same light that had touched his chest when he woke up, and she turned to face him. Her dark hair caught the light, and for a moment she looked like she belonged in that square of warmth—like she was part of the morning itself.
"Your apartment's quiet," she said. "I like it."
He set his coffee cup on the kitchen counter, next to his phone, still face-down. "It's usually quiet. Unless the group's here."
"I know." She lifted her own cup and took a sip, her eyes staying on him over the rim. "That's why I like it."
He felt something shift in his chest—a warmth that had nothing to do with the coffee. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, then uncrossing them because it felt like he was trying to protect himself. He let his hands fall to his sides instead. "You really didn't have to come all this way."
"I know." She said it the same way, simple, final. "But I wanted to. And I figured you'd need more than just coffee."
"More than coffee?"
She set her cup down on the counter beside his, lining them up side by side—his black ceramic, her white one, a pair. Then she looked at him, and her dark eyes were steady, patient, holding something he couldn't quite name. "Company. Someone to talk to. Someone to sit with while you wait."
He opened his mouth. Closed it. The words were there, somewhere, but they were tangled in the feeling of her standing in his apartment, in his shirt, offering to stay when she had every reason to leave him to his nerves.
"Inde—"
"You don't have to say anything." She took a step closer, then another, until she was close enough that he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes, the way her dark irises caught the light. "I'm not here to ask for anything. I'm here because I want to be."
He looked down at her. At the collar of his Henley slipping off her shoulder, at the way her hand hung at her side, close enough to touch. His own hand moved before he decided to—lifting, reaching, his fingers brushing against the fabric at her shoulder, adjusting it back into place without thinking. The touch was light, barely there, but he felt the warmth of her skin through the thin cotton, and his breath caught.
Her eyes stayed on his. She didn't pull away. Didn't lean in. Just let the touch land, let it settle, let it be whatever it was.
"Sorry," he said, pulling his hand back. "I didn't mean to—"
"It's okay." Her voice was soft. "You can touch me, Riley. It's okay."
The words landed somewhere deep, in a place he hadn't known was waiting to hear them. He let his hand fall back to his side, but the warmth of her skin stayed on his fingertips, a ghost of contact.
She reached for her coffee cup again, took another sip, and then gestured toward the hallway with her chin. "You should probably put a shirt on before we start figuring out what you're wearing tonight."
He blinked. "What?"
"For the date." She said it like it was obvious, like it was the most natural thing in the world for her to be standing in his apartment, in his shirt, planning his outfit for a date with Jasmine. "You don't have a game plan, do you?"
"I—" He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from sleep. "I was going to just grab something. Jeans. A clean shirt."
Her mouth curved. "That's not a game plan. That's survival."
"I'm not exactly known for my fashion sense."
"I know." Her eyes glinted, warm and teasing. "That's why I'm here."
He let out a breath that was half laugh, half something lighter. "You're going to dress me for my date with Jasmine."
"I'm going to help you choose." She set her cup down, squared her shoulders, and looked at him with that quiet intensity he was still learning how to hold. "There's a difference."
He shook his head, but a smile was tugging at the corner of his mouth, unbidden, unexpected. "You're something else, you know that?"
"I've been told." She walked past him, toward the hallway that led to his bedroom, her bare feet making soft sounds on the carpet. "Come on. Let's see what you're working with."
He followed her, his heart doing something complicated—a skip, a stutter, a settling. The hallway was short, the door to his bedroom already half-open, and she pushed it the rest of the way without hesitation, stepping inside like she belonged there.
It was the same room he'd woken up in a few minutes ago—the same rumpled sheets, the same rectangle of sun on the wall, the same dresser with its mismatched handles and a stack of folded clothes on top. She stood in the center of it, her hands on her hips, surveying the room like a general assessing a battlefield.
"This is it?" she said.
"This is my wardrobe, yeah." He gestured at the dresser, the closet door. "It's not exactly extensive."
She walked to the dresser and opened the top drawer. He felt a flash of something—vulnerability, maybe, the way someone else was seeing the inside of his drawers, the way she was touching his clothes. But it faded as he watched her, the careful way she ran her fingers across the folded fabric, the way she pulled out a dark blue henley and held it up, examining it like she was judging its character.
"This one's good," she said. "The color works with your eyes."
He blinked. "My eyes?"
She looked at him, one eyebrow raised. "You don't know your own eyes?"
"I know they're brown. I didn't know they had—colors that work."
She set the henley aside and pulled out a gray v-neck. "This one too. Simple. Clean. It doesn't try too hard."
"Isn't that the opposite of what you want for a date?"
She turned to face him, the gray v-neck still in her hands. "You're not trying to impress Jasmine with your clothes. You're trying to let her see you. The clothes are just the frame."
He didn't know what to say to that. She was looking at him with that steady gaze, and he felt seen in a way that made his chest tight—like she wasn't just picking out a shirt, she was telling him something about who he was, who she saw him as.
She turned back to the dresser, pulled open the second drawer, and let out a small sound—half amused, half affectionate. "Riley. Is this all you own?"
He stepped closer to look. It was his casual drawer—t-shirts, mostly worn soft from years of use, their colors faded from too many washes. A gray one with a faded university logo, a black one that had once been navy, a white one with a small stain near the hem that he'd never been able to get out.
"I don't need much," he said.
"You need at least one shirt that doesn't look like it's been through a war." She pulled out the black one, held it up, and frowned. "This has a hole."
"It's a small hole."
"It's a hole." She folded it and put it back. Then she turned to his closet, pulling the door open, and he watched as she ran her hand along the few hanging items—a couple of button-downs he wore for family dinners, a light jacket, a hoodie.
She pulled out a dark green button-down, the one his mother had given him last Christmas, and held it up. "This is nice. Good fabric. The color's deep."
"I've worn it once."
"Then it's time for a second time." She held it against his chest, the fabric brushing his bare skin, and the touch was light but deliberate. She was close now, close enough that he could see the way her hair fell forward, the way her focus narrowed on the shirt like she was solving a puzzle. "It fits your shoulders well. And it's not trying too hard—it's just good."
He looked down at the shirt against his chest, at her hands holding it there, her fingers gripping the edges of the fabric. "You think Jasmine will like it?"
She looked up at him. Her dark eyes met his, and for a moment the air between them went still. "I think you'll like it. That's what matters."
The words hit him somewhere soft. He swallowed. "Inde—"
"Jeans," she said, pulling the shirt away and turning back to the closet. "The dark ones, not the light wash. And your boots, not the sneakers." She was moving now, pulling the shirt free from its hanger, laying it flat on his dresser. "You have boots, right?"
"Yeah. Brown leather."
"Good. That's the outfit." She stepped back, surveyed the arrangement—the green button-down, the dark jeans he'd have to grab from his drawer, the imaginary boots. "It's you. It's simple. It's enough."
He looked at the clothes laid out on his dresser. The green shirt against the dark wood. The way she'd paired them without hesitation, like she'd known all along what would work. "You're really good at this."
"I've had practice." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I used to help my little brother pick out his clothes for school. He was worse than you."
He felt the warmth of that—the small piece of her life she'd given him, dropped into the conversation like a stone into still water. "I didn't know you had a brother."
"He's younger. Fourteen. Lives with my mom back home." She said it casually, but there was something beneath the surface—a tenderness, a distance. "I don't talk about him much."
"Why not?"
She shrugged, one shoulder lifting inside his Henley. "Some things are mine. Not everything needs to be shared."
The words were gentle, but they carried a boundary—thin, almost invisible, but there. He respected it. Nodded. "Fair enough."
She glanced at the clock on his nightstand. "You still have about five hours. Enough time for breakfast, maybe a walk, definitely more coffee."
"You're staying?" The question came out before he could stop it, and he heard the hope in it—unfiltered, unguarded.
Her eyes softened. "I said I would."
He let out a breath. The tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly, and he felt the shape of the morning open up in front of him—five hours of her company, her quiet presence, her steady gaze. It was more than he'd let himself hope for.
"Okay," he said. "Breakfast, then. I think I have eggs."
"You think you have eggs?"
"I'm pretty sure." He walked past her into the kitchen, and she followed, the Henley brushing against the doorframe as she passed. He could feel her behind him, a warmth at his back, and when he opened the refrigerator, he found half a carton of eggs, a block of cheese, and some leftover takeout he didn't remember ordering.
"I have eggs," he said, holding up the carton.
She leaned against the counter, watching him with that small almost-smile. "Scrambled?"
"I can do scrambled." He pulled out the eggs, the cheese, a knob of butter. "You want some?"
"I've had coffee."
"That's not breakfast."
"It's Saturday. Coffee is breakfast."
He cracked an egg against the edge of a bowl, the shell splitting cleanly. "You're staying for five hours. You're eating real food."
She tilted her head, considering him. "Bossy."
"Necessary." He cracked another egg. "You came all this way. The least I can do is feed you."
The kitchen filled with the sound of eggs hitting the bowl, the whisk scraping against ceramic, the butter sizzling in the pan. He moved through the motions, familiar and grounding, and she stayed at the counter, watching him, her cup of coffee warming her hands.
"You cook," she said. It wasn't a question.
"I can make eggs. And toast. And pasta, if I'm feeling ambitious."
"That's more than I can do."
"What do you eat?"
"Takeout. Cereal. Whatever's in the cafeteria." He glanced at her, and her grin was sheepish, almost embarrassed. "I'm a student. I have priorities."
He shook his head, but the smile was there again, easy this time, like it belonged. He poured the eggs into the pan, the butter hissing, and the smell of them cooking filled the small kitchen. The rectangle of sun had shifted across the floor, stretching toward the cabinets, and the light caught the steam rising from the pan, making it look like something almost magical.
He scraped the eggs into a bowl, added a sprinkle of cheese, and slid it across the counter toward her. "Eat."
She looked at the bowl, then at him. "You're not having any?"
"I'll have some." He grabbed another fork, pulled out the stool from under the counter, and sat down across from her. The counter was narrow, the kind that was meant for eating alone, but she was here now, and the space felt smaller, more intimate.
She took a bite. Her eyes closed for a second—just a second—and then she opened them and looked at him with something like surprise. "These are good."
"They're eggs."
"They're really good eggs."
He felt a flush of warmth, silly and small, but there. He took a bite of his own, and they ate in silence for a moment, the only sounds the scrape of forks against ceramic and the low hum of the refrigerator.
"Riley." She set her fork down. "Can I ask you something?"
He nodded, his mouth full.
"Are you nervous? About tonight?"
He chewed, swallowed. The question landed in his chest, and he felt it settle there, a weight he'd been carrying since he woke up. "Yeah," he said. "A little."
"Why?"
He looked at her. At the dark of her hair against the gray of his Henley. At the patience in her eyes, the way she was waiting, not pushing, just holding the space for him to answer. "Because it's Jasmine. And she's—she's a lot. Bright and loud and sure. And I'm—" He gestured at himself. "I'm me."
Her gaze held his steady, unwavering. "You're enough, Riley. That's the thing you keep forgetting."
The words hit him like a hand on his chest, firm and warm. He didn't know what to say to that—didn't know how to hold the weight of her confidence in him when he still wasn't sure he felt it himself. So he looked down at his eggs, pushed a piece around with his fork, and let the silence hold them.
"I'll be here when you get back," she said. Her voice was low, quiet, but it carried. "If you want to talk about it. Or if you don't. Either way."
He lifted his head. The light caught her face, the soft curve of her jaw, the sincerity in her dark eyes, and he felt something crack open in his chest—something tender and raw and terrifyingly real.
"Thank you," he said. The words were small, but they held everything he couldn't say.
She nodded. Picked up her fork. Took another bite of eggs.
The morning stretched ahead of them, full of hours and silences and the shape of what was coming. The coffee cups sat empty on the counter, side by side. The eggs were almost gone. And Inde was still in his Henley, sitting across from him, a promise she didn't need to speak.