He ducks his head, trying to shrug it off, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth that he can’t quite kill.
I lean forward, resting my chin on the guitar. “We should do this again.”
His eyes lift, startled.
“No audience,” I add, voice low. “Just us.”
This is where the reason should kick in. A lecture about lines not to cross. Maybe a careful little speech about how he deserves space, deserves safety, how the last thing I should do is light a fire he’s not ready for. They’re all lined up in my head.
But the truth? I’m already leaning in, already planning the next time, already chasing the sound of him like it belongs in my veins. I tell myself I’m not obsessed. And maybe that’s true. But I’m definitely not letting him slip past me either.
His blush deepens, hesitation flickering in his eyes like he’s caught between two worlds. But he doesn’t say no. That’s enough to make every nerve in my body spark.
I push, casual but deliberate. “Sunday afternoon, I’m free. You?”
He swallows, gaze darting to the guitar in his lap, then back to me. After a beat, he nods. “Yeah. Sunday works.”
Something inside me grins wider than my face ever could. “Good. We’ll figure out where. No pressure, just music.”
I pull my phone from my pocket and hold it out. “Number?”
He hesitates only a second before taking it, his thumb moving quick, efficient, typing in digits before passing it back. My screen now hasOllie Marshallstaring at me in black and white. Fuck if that doesn’t look good there. I save it before I can overthink.
He stands, gently sets the guitar back on its hook, and grabs the pack of strings he’d abandoned on the counter. Frank rings him up without comment, though the smirk he shoots me says he noticed everything.
I’m about to toss out a parting shot, something cocky enough to cover the fact that my pulse hasn’t calmed since the first note, when Ollie clears his throat.
“Coffee?” he asks, voice steady but quiet.
It’s so unexpected I blink. “Yeah,” I say before he can take it back. “Coffee sounds perfect.”
We step out into the December air together, side by side. The shop’s door jingles closed behind us, Frank’s smirk still clinging to my shoulders. Ollie has the strings in one hand, his jacket zipped tight, gaze forward. My phone in my pocket is warm from where his number just landed, like that little string of digits is radioactive.
A few doors down, there’s a café I duck into sometimes between classes. Nothing fancy—no chalkboard menus with impossible latte flavors, no pack of stressed-out students hogging the tables with laptops. Just a narrow place that smells like roasted beans and sugar, mismatched mugs stacked behind the counter, and coffee that actually tastes like coffee.
“Here,” I say, jerking my chin toward it.
Ollie glances at the sign, then at me. His expression is unreadable, but he follows. Inside it’s dimmer, warmer, the walls lined with framed records and faded photos. A few older locals are scattered around, reading newspapers or just staring out the window. Not a single college kid in sight.
“This is different,” Ollie says.
“Different good or different bad?”
He studies the chalkboard menu with its four simple options: coffee, espresso, cappuccino, tea. “Good,” he admits, and steps up to order before I can.
I try to beat him to it, but he’s faster. “I’ve got it,” he says, pulling his wallet free. His tone brooks no argument.
“Captain pays, huh? Guess that makes me team mascot.”
He almost smiles as he hands over cash.
We grab our mugs—mine dark roast, his cappuccino—and slide into a booth near the back. The cushions are cracked vinyl, the table scarred with initials and doodles carved by bored customers, but it feels tucked away, private.
“So,” I say, blowing on my coffee, “season going okay?”
His brows lift, like he didn’t expect me to ask about basketball. “We’re winning.”
“That’s it? Just ‘we’re winning’? I expected at least a TED Talk on drills and glory.”
