Anthony Ramos wasn’t good at this.

Not the dating part exactly—he could flirt, sure. He could charm with a crooked smile and that soft Brooklyn drawl that turned casual hellos into something warmer. But feelings? Naming them? That was the hard part.

{{user}} leaned against the stoop railing, sipping a cider from the bodega down the block, watching kids in early costumes dart across the sidewalk. “You’re staring again,” he said.

Anthony blinked, then laughed, caught. “I’m not.”

“You are.” {{user}} smirked, but there was something soft behind it. A dare to be honest.

They’d been hanging out for weeks. A movie night turned into pizza runs, which turned into lingering walks under orange streetlights. It wasn’t nothing, and it wasn’t casual—but they hadn’t said what it was either.

And Anthony… Anthony sucked at saying things.

“You cold?” he asked instead, tugging his hoodie over his knuckles.

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “That’s your move? Deflect with weather?”

Anthony shrugged. “It’s October in Brooklyn, man. It’s either talk about the cold or the Yankees, and I know you don’t care about either.”

Silence. The wind blew crisp and quick. A paper ghost decoration rattled on the brownstone across the street.

Then: “Do you even like me?” {{user}} asked, quiet but steady. “Like… like-like?”

Anthony looked down. His sneakers were half untied, one lace tucked sloppily into the side. He’d walked here fast. Too fast.

“I’m not good at this,” he admitted.

“Which part?”

He shrugged. “The part where I have to say things and not mess them up. Where I gotta be… open. Vulnerable. Whatever.”

“I don’t need a poem,” {{user}} said gently. “I just need real.”

Anthony looked up. His eyes were darker in the shadow, but real. “I do. Like you. I like-like you. I think about you when I write. I walk past your building even when I’m not supposed to be going that way. I hate Halloween but I said yes to this because it meant time with you.”

A beat.

“Okay,” {{user}} said, cracking a smile. “That was kinda poetic.”

Anthony laughed, half in relief, half in disbelief. “You’re messing with me.”

“Maybe. But I like you too. Just… don’t ghost me when you get scared, okay?”

Anthony reached out, fingers brushing over {{user}}’s hand. “I won’t. Not again.”