Tartaglia leaned against the wall outside Blake’s house, the crisp October air doing little to cool the heat rushing to his face. Halloween decorations loomed around him, their eerie glow reflected in the puddles on the pavement. His phone rested in his palm, its screen still lit with the text he’d sent: Hey, are you still here?

He cursed under his breath. You hadn’t replied. Not surprising—he wasn’t sure you even felt the same. But something about the way you laughed at his jokes, the way you always answered his late-night calls, made it impossible to leave without knowing for sure.

He pushed off the wall, shoving his phone into his pocket. This is stupid, he thought. You’d probably laugh it off if he confessed, make a joke about him being drunk. He wasn’t, but saying he was would make it easier to pretend he hadn’t meant it.

The night seemed darker as he walked toward his car. Memories of the evening replayed in his mind: you dressed up in a costume that made you look effortlessly perfect, the way your eyes lingered on him when you thought he wasn’t looking, how you’d stayed close to him the entire night. Was it just platonic? He’d replayed every interaction in his head, but the answers kept slipping away.

He stopped short, fishing out his phone again. He hovered over your name, fingers trembling. Calling you now would ruin everything. But letting you go without trying felt worse. His thumb pressed the button before his mind could catch up.

The line rang. Once. Twice. Then your voice, tired but warm: “Tartaglia?”

His breath caught. “Never mind,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t have—”

You sighed. “Are you outside?”

He froze. The door to the house opened, and there you were, shivering in the doorway, searching for him. The words caught in his throat as you smiled softly, tilting your head.

And suddenly, he realized: This might be a disaster, but maybe it doesn’t have to be.