“nice pin there”

Jack says, low and husky, as he lids his eyes to look down at you, you’re in the coffeeshop waiting line, and he’s been eyeing you the whole time, prying his baby blues away every time you caught him staring, smiling to himself after and scratching his beard.

it’s a Dead Kennedys pin you wear, on the strap of your backpack, Jack’s jacket has a patch of the same band, among many others, sewn to the denim precariously and messily, spattered with paint and torn on the edges of his sleeves.

he gets his wallet to pay, smiles to the cashier and orders a shot of expresso, sneaks a glance at you from above his shoulder as he waits for his receipt.