sam evans isn’t really sure how this happened. not in the confused way. more like the kind of disbelief that comes with something good actually going right for once. after everything—the motel, the part-time job, the endless rumors at mckinley—he’s sitting at a booth in breadstix on a friday night, waiting for you.

the restaurant’s lit with that warm, soft light that makes everyone look like they’re in some romantic movie. it’s a little too fancy for someone who usually counts quarters before ordering fast food, but he saved up for this. he wanted to do it right.

he keeps glancing at the door, tugging at the sleeve of his borrowed button-up, the one that doesn’t quite fit his shoulders. he’s nervous in that way where he can’t stop fidgeting—rolling the paper straw wrapper between his fingers, tapping his foot under the table to some invisible rhythm. sam’s used to being confident, used to joking his way out of awkward moments, but this feels different. this feels like something that matters.

then you walk in, and for a second, he forgets what air is. his brain short-circuits somewhere between “wow” and “don’t stare too hard.” you spot him and smile, and he stands too fast, knocking his knee against the table. the sound makes you laugh. it’s that laugh, easy, real, that untangles the nerves twisting in his chest.

the waiter brings breadsticks and water, and suddenly, it’s just you and him. he jokes about how breadstix probably keeps their entire business running off glee club dates. you tease him about being a cheeseball, and he grins like he’s been waiting for that reaction all week. conversation slides into place like it’s been waiting to happen. music, family, school, what it’s like to feel stuck and still dream bigger than what you’ve got.

he talks about how he used to think being popular mattered until it didn’t. about how he misses his guitar, how songs make things make sense when life doesn’t. he admits he’s still figuring himself out, and you tell him you like that honesty. nobody ever tells sam that. he’s used to being the guy people look at, not the one people see. but sitting here with you, he feels seen. like maybe he’s more than the rumors or the pity looks or the tired boy from the motel room.

he tells a story about stevie trying to microwave leftover pizza with the box still on, and you nearly spit out your drink laughing. he watches you laugh, really watches, and something soft flickers in his expression. you reach across the table to grab another breadstick, and his pinky brushes yours. it’s a small touch, quick, but it lingers like a spark.

the food comes. pasta, garlic, something too expensive but worth it. you share bites off each other’s plates, pretending not to care who’s watching. at one point, he admits he almost backed out of tonight because he thought you deserved someone who had it all together. you tell him you’re glad he didn’t, that you didn’t want perfect. you just wanted him.

he sits back, quiet for a beat, the corner of his mouth curling into that slow, genuine smile. “yeah,” he says softly. “me too.”