We don't call it dating.
We call it "hanging out with emotional undertones."
Which, apparently, includes:
Pinky holding (limited to one public instance per day)
Texts that are definitely flirty but also vague enough to be plausible deniability
Movie nights where we sit close enough to touch but never actually do, except when we accidentally brush shoulders and pretend not to notice
Basically, it's dating for people who are emotionally literate but also cowardly.
And I'm fine with that. Mostly.
Until I see Evan's contact name in my phone—"Laundry Boy"—and realize I want to change it.
To what, though? "Maybe Something More"? "Too Soon To Tell"? "Making Me Nervous (In a Good Way)"?
I settle on just "Evan."
Simple. Real. Dangerous.
The next time we hang out, we're on my couch eating popcorn and watching a terrible action movie from the early 2000s. It's one of those ironically bad choices where the plot makes no sense, the explosions are frequent, and every character wears sunglasses indoors.
Evan's knee is touching mine.
Very slightly.
And it's all I can think about.
"Why are they breaking into a museum at noon?" I ask, half-laughing.
"Because plot holes are cheaper than night shoots," he replies.
I chuckle, then look at him.
He's already looking at me.
And I feel it. That slow, creeping awareness that we're not just friends anymore.
"Okay," I say, because apparently I can't let a moment just be. "Can I ask a dumb question?"
"Those are my specialty."
"What are we?"
He blinks. "Like, in general? Or—"
"I mean us. This. Whatever this is."
He pauses. "I think we're something. I just don't think we have to name it yet."
My heart skips. "But eventually?"
He nods. "Yeah. Eventually."
I look at him.
Really look.
And I know I should probably be worried about getting hurt, or moving too fast, or what this means for my already chaotic emotional universe.
But I'm not.
I just feel... calm.
Like maybe I don't need to have everything figured out right now.
Maybe it's okay to be in the in-between.
Just for a little while.
Evan grins and throws a kernel of popcorn at me.
It hits my forehead.
I gasp. "You did not just assault me with carbs."
He shrugs. "Consider it foreplay."
I burst out laughing, half-choking on my own popcorn.
We don't kiss.
But our knees stay touching.
And honestly?
That's enough.
For now.
---