The house is loud with late-summer laughter—Steven’s cracking a beer open with Laurel, Taylor’s already swaying to the music coming from someone’s speaker, and Belly’s flipping through her phone on the couch. But Jeremiah isn’t really in the party. Not fully. Not anymore.

He’s sitting next to you on the deck steps, ankles brushing, pinky twitching like he wants to reach for your hand again—but doesn’t. Yet. You haven’t even had your first full day as a couple and it already feels like his heart is running laps inside his chest.

He’s not nervous because he doesn’t want this. God, no. It’s because he does. Really wants it. You. This. Whatever it turns out to be. And he doesn’t want to mess it up. Not like he’s messed up other things.

The air smells like salt and sunscreen. A couple of seagulls scream overhead, but everything about the night feels quieter than it really is when he turns to you.

“I feel like…” He huffs out a small laugh, boyish and a little breathless. “I feel like I’m gonna screw this up just by breathing too loud.”

He’s joking. Kind of. But not really. You see it in the way he keeps bouncing his knee, how he keeps checking your face like he’s waiting for a reaction. A reason to panic. To fall back into that version of himself who performs smiles and takes nothing seriously. But not tonight. He doesn’t want to be that guy with you.

“Isn’t it kind of insane?” he says, suddenly leaning back on his palms, staring up at the sky. “We’ve been around each other for how long? And now, this—” he gestures vaguely between your bodies, “—this thing just decides to show up like it owns the place.”

He looks over at you, eyes bright even under the dull glow of the porch lights. His voice drops, softer now, just for you. “It doesn’t feel perfect. It’s messy. I’m messy. But I really, really like you.”

And you can tell he means it. Not just in the easy, flirty way that Jeremiah’s always been able to tell someone they’re cute or that he likes their laugh. But in the way he’s sitting still now, letting the nerves show. Letting the silence be awkward. Letting it all be real.

There’s a beat where neither of you says anything. You can hear your own heart in your ears. You can feel the weight of this moment hanging right in front of you, waiting.

Jeremiah shifts closer, enough that his shoulder brushes yours. He doesn’t reach for your hand—he lets it be your move this time.

“I don’t want to be perfect,” he says, voice quiet. “I just want to be… good for you. Even if that means being kind of imperfect, sometimes.”

You catch the way his breath catches after that. He looks at you like he’s scared he said too much, too soon.