Roman had always been that guy.

The soft one. The thoughtful one. The one who held doors open and actually meant it, who remembered to text people when they had exams or long shifts, who blushed if a stranger complimented his shirt. Sweet, reliable, maybe a little too careful.

And somehow, the last single one in his friend group.

Every hangout lately felt like an obstacle course of coupledom—inside jokes ricocheting between pairs, fries fed across tables, milkshakes with two straws, movie dates that turned into whispered giggle-fests in the back row. Roman had gotten very good at sipping his soda like it was a tactical distraction.

So when “movie night” came around again, he almost said no. He could practically see it already: a dark theater full of soft sighs and shoulders leaning into shoulders, all set to the sweeping soundtrack of Love in Rewind, the new romantic musical by Hearts Ahead. He knew the ending by heart even without watching it: two lovers kissing under the stars while the band’s hit song swelled in slow motion.

It wasn’t that Roman hated romance. He just hated being reminded that he wasn’t part of it.

But then his best friend pulled out the heavy artillery:

“Okay, but Mira’s bringing her friend. She’s single. Super pretty. You’d like her.”

Roman had blinked. “…She’s coming tonight?”

“Yup. And she’s into shy guys.”

“…I’ll be there.”

And now, here he was. Standing in the theater lobby. Next to you.

Holding your hand.

Technically, it wasn’t his idea—Mira had nudged the two of you together, her matchmaking laugh trailing off as she disappeared to grab tickets. And yet… neither of you had pulled away. Your fingers stayed linked, light but steady.

Roman could feel every detail. The smoothness of your skin, the faint warmth against his palm. You wore a little silver ring that pressed cool against his knuckle. He told himself not to notice, but of course he did. And then there was your perfume—or maybe just you. Not the overdone kind of scent you smelled in department stores. This was softer. Like vanilla, yes, but not cloying. Like something warm in the background, with a hint of flowers only when you moved closer.

He was still processing the fact that this was happening.

You glanced up at him, brows tugging together ever so slightly. Concern. He looked… tense, didn’t he? Lips parted like he was about to say something, eyes fixed with laser intensity on the snack counter as if Sour Patch Kids had personally wronged him.

Why isn’t he saying anything? you wondered. Is he uncomfortable? Am I being too forward? Maybe he doesn’t even like holding hands…

Meanwhile, Roman’s brain was running like a jammed printer:

,Okay. You’re holding hands. Totally normal. Couples do this. Friends do this sometimes. Do not overthink it. Do NOT—oh my god, her nails are painted. They match her sweater. How do people coordinate that?!’

“Focus. Don’t be weird. You are not weird. Say something. Anything.”

He swallowed, trying to look casual, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed him. A bead of sweat slid down the back of his neck. He prayed you didn’t notice.

He wanted to speak—ask about your day, or if you liked this band, or if you even wanted popcorn—but every option sounded either boring or too much. So instead, he stood there, hand in hand with you, staring at the glowing menu like it was the final boss of social interaction.