I dropped my gaze, feeling the warm flush in my cheeks. Sneaking a glance back at him from beneath my lashes, I could see he was still looking at me, laughter in his eyes.

We’d been doing this for months, harmless flirting that could be brushed aside as nothing should the other not return our feelings. We both knew it was mutual, but as we’d never said anything, how could we really...know?

I looked back up at him, fully this time, and my heart tripped before speeding up. He was thinking the same thing. The laughter was gone, his eyes filled instead with an intensity I wanted to look away from.

I swallowed thickly.

Oh god, was this it? The moment of truth?

But he smiled sadly and looked away.

My breath hitched and I looked back down.

Oh god, oh god, oh god.

On some level I realized it was now or never, that it was a miracle that he was still here at all. The word “tease” flitted through my mind, but I brushed it away. That wasn’t it. It wasn’t it at all. You can only be a tease if you know for sure a guy is interested but you have no intention of reciprocity. Right?

I glanced back at him, at the set of his jaw as he watched the game across the bar, watched as his eyes darted to the friends we came with and he started to shake with laughter. I didn’t look to see what had caused it.

Oh god, what if I was wrong? He’s my friend, been my friend since college, what if I misinterpreted? What if I ruin the friendship? And then ruin the friend group? He’ll never want to talk to me again and it will divide the group and everyone will side with him because they’ll see I overstepped and tried to take advantage and I won’t have any friends and—

“Hey,” his voice cut in softly. “Whatever you’re worrying about, cut it out.” He smiled at me, prying the napkin I’d been squeezing out of my hand, forcing the fingers out of a fist into a more relaxed position. “You’ll give yourself premature wrinkles,” he added, smoothing the lines on my forehead with a thumb, pausing to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.

He hesitated for a moment, his hand not quite touching my cheek, but I could feel its warmth against my skin. It felt like fire, where he wasn’t touching me. I wanted him to touch me.

His eyes held mine briefly, and oh, I wanted to give into what my heart, my body, wanted. To grab his hand and run out of there, to pull him into my bed and never leave.

He’s never hesitated to ask out a girl he likes before, the annoying part of my brain reminded me. If he honestly thought of you as anything but a friend, he’d have asked. He isn’t seriously flirting with you, you’ve seen him flirt seriously. So pull your head out of the clouds and forget it.

As though he could see the thought stamped on my face, he smiled sadly and looked away again, back towards the game. I could tell it was baseball, but that was as far as my limited sports knowledge went.

“Who’s playing?” I asked, more out of desire to start conversation than wanting to know.

“The Mets and the Marlins.”

I nodded as though this meant something to me.

I watched him. The way his whole body would tense right before the pitch, would pull in tighter to see how the hit went, and would only relax once the play was over. I realized that I could track the state of the game just by watching his body.

Watching him, the hint of sadness under his concentration on the game, I felt something inside of me tip, felt myself give over.

I thought vaguely of a quote I’d read somewhere, about how people on their death beds regretted the things they didn’t do in life.

I slid an inch closer to him on the bench.

“David?” My voice was soft, had a slight hitch in it. I wondered if he’d be able to hear me, unsure if I could say it again if he hadn’t.

“Mmm?” He didn’t turn from the game, but angled his head towards me slightly, giving me his ear to let me know he was listening.

After another moment silence from me, he turned to look at me. I could see the moment he stopped paying attention to the game and took in the look on my face. And I knew it would be okay.

Before I lost my nerve, I tipped my chin up to lightly press my lips to his.

His whole body tensed for a moment in shock, the tension of a hit that will either win the game or lose it, before he wrapped his arms around me, one at my waist, one in my hair, pressing me more firmly to him.

After awhile, still gripping tightly to each other, we rested our foreheads together, breathing in the other’s exhalation. We stayed like this, occasionally exchanging small kisses, until we started to register giggles and wolf whistles from another table.

Cheeks blazing, we separated, but still sat closer than we had been.

He cleared his throat, sounding slightly awkward.

“Do you, uh,” he cleared his throat again, ran a hand through is hair. “Would you like to, I mean, um, leave?”

I dropped my gaze, feeling heat flood not only my face, but my whole body. I glanced up at him through my lashes, noting the nervous laughter, almost a grimace, on his face.

I bit my lip, not trusting my voice, and just nodded.

His eyes widened with joy—and maybe surprise?—before he stood up and offered me his hand.

I held his eyes as I slipped my fingers into his and stood.