For the past few weeks, something had shifted between you and Oscar. It hadn’t happened all at once–no dramatic confession, no cinematic moment in the rain. It was subtler than that. More messages. Longer calls that stretched past midnight. Random voice notes about nothing in particular. And now, walks. So many walks.

That afternoon the park was washed in golden light, the kind that made everything look softer than it really was. Dry leaves crunched under your shoes as you moved side by side, close enough for your arms to brush occasionally, but not quite close enough to make it intentional.

You were talking about absolutely nothing–about a dog that had just run past you, about a ridiculous interview he’d seen, about how the clouds looked like badly shaped marshmallows. The ease between you felt new and dangerous at the same time.

“We can get ice cream,” you suggested casually, pretending the idea had just come to you.

Lando stopped mid-step and looked at you with exaggerated disbelief. “Do I look like the kind of guy who goes on ice cream dates?” he asked, rolling his eyes, though there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You sighed dramatically. “No. I guess you don’t.”

You resumed walking, hands tucked into your jacket pockets, suddenly very aware of how vulnerable that simple suggestion had been. Ice cream dates sounded like something couples did. Or at least people who were dangerously close to becoming one.

Silence settled between you for a few seconds. Not awkward–just heavy. Charged.

You focused on the path ahead, trying to convince yourself it didn’t matter. You could still just be friends. Friends who texted constantly. Friends who remembered each other’s coffee orders. Friends who walked a little too close.

“What flavor are you getting?” he asked.

You turned your head slowly. “I thought you didn’t do ice cream dates.”

“I don’t,” he replied immediately. “I’m just asking.”

There it was again–that tiny crack in his cool, effortless façade. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, shoulders slightly tense. He wasn’t looking at you anymore; he was looking at the ice cream stand in the distance like it was a strategic decision he needed to win.

You smiled despite yourself. “Mint chocolate chip.”

He grimaced. “That’s criminal.”

“It’s elite.”

He finally looked at you properly then, eyes narrowing in mock judgment. But there was something else there. Something warmer. Softer. And very much not friendly in the ordinary sense.

“Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll get something normal. Like chocolate.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“And you’re chaotic,” he shot back. “Mint chocolate chip? Who even are you?”

You laughed, and the tension broke—but not completely. It just shifted. Deepened.

As you reached the stand, you noticed he slowed down slightly, letting you step ahead first. When you ordered, he stood close enough that you could feel his presence at your back, warm and steady. Too steady.

You handed over your money, accepted your cone, and turned around carefully so you wouldn’t bump into him.

He was already watching you.

For a split second, neither of you said anything.

He looked at your ice cream, then at you, then back at the ice cream.

“I’m fucked,” he thought, realizing it wasn’t about the mint chocolate chip. It wasn’t about the date either. It was about the fact that he had never wanted to be the kind of guy who went on ice cream dates–until it was with you.

And that was significantly more dangerous than any flavor choice.