"I could get used to this public affection thing," he admits, his voice roughened at the edges. "But I do not know how Etienne does it so seamlessly. The hand-holding. The little gestures. The natural romance of it all. He makes it look effortless. I feel like I am trying to parallel park a truck."
I grin.
"Are you jealous of Etienne's romantic instincts?"
"Fuck yeah I am." The confession is immediate and unashamed. "I swear that man is the most inexperienced out of all of us, but he is a hopeless romantic who knows every move. Every look. Every perfectly timed hand squeeze. I am going to have to read his books to get pointers. Study the source material. Take notes. Develop a curriculum."
I laugh, the sound loud enough to echo off the lockers.
"Wait, his books are actually incredible," I say, the excitement in my voice genuine and uncontainable. "I am hoping he will finish the one I started reading. Carlos and Luna's story. It is unfinished and it has been haunting me. The characterization is so rich and the romance is slow-burnperfection and I need to know how it ends or I will lose my mind."
"Is it that good?" Cal asks, his eyebrows lifting with real curiosity.
"You have to read it. But I should ask his permission first. I accidentally stumbled onto it, which was probably invasive, but he was happy I liked it. I think he was more surprised than anything. Surprised that someone cared enough to read past the first page."
The thought lands with a bittersweet weight that we both feel.
Cal nods slowly.
"I will ask him. Reading is not exactly my default setting, but for Etienne, I will give it a shot. The man earned some effort."
The statement carries layers that have nothing to do with literature. It carries the weight of a man trying to repair a relationship he helped damage, extending an olive branch through the language of interest and respect, meeting Etienne in the space of his passion rather than asking Etienne to meet him in the space of his comfort.
Growth looks good on Cal.
"Which reminds me," he adds, his expression brightening with the energy shift of someone who has landed on an idea. "I think we should learn more about each other's hobbies. All of us. Not just surface-level stuff. The real interests that we protect because they feel too personal to share with people who might judge them."
I think about it.
The suggestion triggers a cascade of possibilities that my brain assembles with the enthusiasm of a woman who has been waiting her entire life for people who want to know her beyond the basics. Beyond the figure skating and theacademic performance and the general facts that fit neatly into introduction conversations.
"Why do we not do it this weekend?" I propose, the idea taking shape as I speak. "Like a group activity. We could bake cookies or try a new recipe together and just... talk. About what we want to do this semester. What matters to us. What we have been afraid to pursue because pursuing things requires admitting you care about them, and caring about things is terrifying when you have spent your life losing what you love."
The last part comes out more honest than I intended.
Cal does not flinch from it.
"You know what," he says, his grin spreading with a spontaneity that tells me the decision is made and the logistics will be figured out later because Cal Whitmore operates on impulse and refines the details in post-production. "Why the fuck not. Let us do a Valentine's bake fest. The whole pack. Flour everywhere. Frosting disasters. Cal trying not to burn the kitchen down while three other people supervise."
I smirk.
"You have a track record with kitchen fires?"
"I have a track record with ambition exceeding skill. There is a difference. The fires are a byproduct, not a goal."
"That is not the reassurance you think it is."
"But," he continues, pointing a finger at me with the theatrical energy of a man presenting a pitch, "I have a better idea in terms of location. The bake fest is happening, but not here. Not in our tiny apartment kitchen with one working burner and an oven that has trust issues."
I narrow my eyes.
"What are you planning?"
He smirks. Broader. The kind of grin that carries mischief in its corners and a refusal to elaborate in its center. His amber eyes catch the fluorescent light filtering through the hallway,glinting with the particular satisfaction of a man who is holding a secret he has no intention of surrendering.
"It is a surprise," he says.
And winks.
