Nia clocked it, too. The way her gaze tempered told me she recognized our current. She turned a fraction toward her car—a cherry-red coupe sitting low and smug, the kind of shine you only put on something you enjoy seeing yourself in. “I should head out. Y’all have a good evening.”
“Drive safe,” Quentin said, polite to the bone.
She gave him a last look that lingered a touch too long, then one to me—cool, equal parts nod and note—before she walked away. Heels clicking. Tail lights winking. Engine humming like she had a playlist for walking away from problems and winning.
The lot smoothed itself back into quiet.
A mouthful of questions crowded my teeth.Who is she to you? Is she a problem? Did you ever—?None of those came out, because I knew if I asked right here, I’d ask wrong. And I wasn’t ready for the answer I feared or the look I’d have to wear when he gave it.
So I took a breath and said, “Got off early. Thought maybe we could grab something to eat.”
He studied me for two beats, then nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”
His smile—the real one—came back easy, and something unclenched under my sternum I didn’t know I’d been holding.
The Thai spotwasn’t anything fancy — strip-mall square, neon OPEN blinking, a paper menu taped to the glass like somebody refused to fuss. The smell hit as soon as we walked in: basil, lime, fish sauce, heat. Lamps cast honey light on our two-top; the room hummed with people who wanted their food hot and their stories hotter.
Quentin slid his glasses up with a knuckle, that teacher look on his face — like he’d already memorized the menu but still gave the paper a chance to surprise him.
“You getting the pad see ew again?” I said, deadpan.
He smirked without looking. “Maybe I enjoy the broad noodle.”
“You would.”
“You’re ordering drunken noodles extra spicy just to watch me sweat.”
“Gotta keep you honest.”
His eyes lifted slow to mine. A thread of heat wound through that smile. “You already do.”
Spring rolls landed because they belong. Papaya salad because Quentin can’t resist balance. He ordered medium; Ipushed past limits like they were for other people. For the first ten minutes we kept it clean — site talk, classroom wins, small victories articulated like we were cataloging miracle moments. Then the chili hit, and the real conversation began.
He reached across and stole a bite. I smacked his fork with mine. He coughed, eyes watering behind the lenses. “You’re mad spicy,” he said. “Why are you like this?”
“Builds character,” I said. I laughed, but the sound had an edge I didn’t want. My head kept sliding back to Nia — the way she’d leaned in at the fundraiser, the hand on his sleeve like a claim that hadn’t yet been filed.
“So your history teacher friend—” I started.
He looked up slowly, unflappable. “She’s not my friend.”
That answer should’ve dropped the mic. Should’ve made it simple. Didn’t.
“She seemed… interested,” I said, each word careful.
“She is,” he said. Plain. “But I’m not.” He left the sentence open, eyes steady on mine. “I don’t play where I work. And even if I did, it wouldn’t be with anyone but you.”
That was Quentin — say what he means, then look at you like he’s ready to show his work. The words landed somewhere beneath my armor. I let the silence do its business and changed the subject back to noodles because I didn’t want to admit how much those words mattered.
At his place the quiet felt like something heavy and deliberate. His boots by the door, keys in the bowl; he fixed a crooked frame without thinking, and I thought about kicking it just to see him straighten it again. I was halflaughing, half dangerous. The air was taut with the both-of-us-know-what-we-are thing.
“Still hungry?” he asked, voice low against my neck.
“For food?” I tossed back. He didn’t answer. He kissed me like the parking lot had been a different country, hard and claiming. My hoodie puddled on the floor, his shirt followed.
He lifted me to the counter like I weighed nothing, slid my pants down, and entered me in one sure stroke. The world narrowed to skin and sound. When I started to tighten — the small ugly knot of jealousy that had flared earlier — he cut it out with a rasped question.
“You think I don’t know?” he said, hips driving, his breath hot. “The way you looked at her and then me?”
