Alycia’s knees bump the table as she pushes back, her chair scraping against the hardwood like she needs the noise to ground herself. She grabs the plate from Marisol’s hands, her voice higher than normal. “Gracias, Mamá.”
Marisol’s gaze flicks between us, her eyes narrowing just slightly before the corner of her mouth curves up. “Drive safely, you two. Andno olviden el pie.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I manage, though my voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
Alycia mumbles a goodbye, but I can feel her trying not to look at me, the tension still vibrating under her skin.
“And Kyle, you’re welcome to come visit anytime. I mean it.”
I laugh, but it comes out a little rough. “Careful, ma’am. I might take you up on that.”
She winks and disappears back toward the kitchen, humming under her breath. The sound fades, but the charge she left behind doesn’t.
I watch Alycia watching the doorway long after her mom’s gone. Her cheeks are still pink, her chest rising and falling a little too fast, that foil-wrapped pie clutched like a shield. I can tell she’s fighting to pull herself back together, and I can’t look away.
She finally turns, catching me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, but it comes out low, honest. “You don’t look like someone who wants to leave yet.”
Her breath stutters, punching heat straight into my ribs before she lifts her chin like she’s daring me to pretend I didn’t see it. “And what do I look like, then?”
“Like someone who’s still thinking about what almost happened.”
She doesn’t move, eyes focused on the foil plate, fiddling with the edge. “We should go.”
“Probably.” I push my chair back and stand, careful not to touch her. She looks up, startled by the nearness.
“Relax,” I say quietly, offering a small smile. “You’re shaking.”
“I’mfine.”
“Sure,” I tease, hoping to cover how hard my heart is beating. “You should work on your poker face.”
Her mouth twitches, an almost-smile tugging at the corner. And in that quiet, the truth slides into place so cleanly it steals my breath. I don’t want this to end when we walk out that door.
She turns, heading toward the entryway, and I follow, the sound of her heels clicking softly against the floor. The night air greets us as we step outside, the Portland chill seeping through your clothes but never quite into your bones.
“Sorry.” Alycia exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. “She means well. She just?—”
“Likes me?” I cut in, teasing, because it’s easier than saying what I really want to.
“She likes anyone who eats her cooking.”
“Lucky for me, I love pie.”
That earns me a quiet laugh, the edge of her nerves fading. We reach her car, and I stop beside it, turning to her. My hand comes out automatically. “Keys?”
Not because she can’t drive, but because I need to feel like I’m doing something besides watching her fall apart quietly. She hesitates, then fishes them from her bag and drops them into my palm. Our fingers brush, making my pulse kick up again, and I open the door for her. “After you.”
She slides into the seat, tucking the pie onto her lap as if it's something fragile. I lean down out of habit, ready to help her with the seat belt, then stop when she reaches for it herself. The click of the buckle feelslouder than it should. She doesn’t even look at me, and I know exactly why. She’s trying to keep her distance and not lose the same fight I am.
When I shut her door, I stand there for a moment, letting the cool night air hit me, before making my way to the driver’s side and climbing in. My hands are shaking as I turn the key in the ignition. As I make my way back toward her apartment, Alycia’s reflection flickers in the windshield, all soft edges and shadow. She’s staring out the window, biting the inside of her cheek, probably overthinking every detail from tonight.
I can see it in the tension in her jaw and the faint crease between her brows; she’s trying to build her walls back up, brick by brick. But every time the streetlights pass over her face, I can see the worry in her eyes. The tiny flash of vulnerability she probably doesn’t even know she’s showing makes me want to tell her she doesn’t have to keep holding everything together on her own. But I tighten my grip on the wheel and look straight ahead, because if I don’t, I’ll say something I can’t take back.
“You didn’t have to say that,” she says after a while, voice soft but edged with something fragile.
“Say what?”
