He shifts uncomfortably. Also very un-Dash-like. “I, well, I… yes?” Warmth blooms in my chest, but before I can say anything, can even think of what to say, he’s off and rambling. “It’s—look, I’m really sorry because while I did recognize that the whole boombox thing outside the window is somewhat problematic, it didn't hit me until I was halfway to your dorm, justhowproblematic it is in a whole respecting-boundaries kind of situation. And I'm really sorry for that. And also, of course, for the whole not respecting your boundaries thing. I'm sorry for pushing, and I'm sorry for not backing off or letting you lead, or whatever it is you would have wanted.” He sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “I'm sorry for not just fucking asking what you wanted.”
“Dash…”
“Caleb, what do you want? If you want me just to go away and leave you alone, I will.” He takes a half step back, as if to prove he means it.
“No!” I blurt out in a panic. He stops. I reach out and touch the sleeve of his hockey jersey, running my hand along the fabric. Along Dash’s arm, warm and solid underneath it. “No. What I’d like, actually...”—I clear my throat, straighten my back, and make myself be brave—”I’d like to know if I can kiss you.”
His eyes widen. Then soften. Then twinkle.
He slowly nods his head.
I slide my hand around to his back, pulling him to me. He comes willingly, pressing himself against me, tangling himself with me.
I lean in, brush against his lips. Part them. His breath mixes with mine. Then we are open mouths and sliding tongues and awarm hum of laughter and relief and promises of moments and moments and moments to come.
A tear slides from my eye, and Dash reaches fingers up to dry both our cheeks where the drop has spread between us, never breaking the kiss. His touch is so tender and sweet, I forget to be embarrassed that I’m crying again. But only because I am so, so happy.
There are catcalls again, more of them this time, because it’s broad daylight and we’re actually making out, not just touching, but I don’t care.
Finally, we break apart, but only to grin helplessly at each other.
“It's not an excuse,” Dash says after a minute, “but the shirt alone didn’t really have that much impact, and my mommayhave raised me on John Cusack movies. It’s a Gen X thing.”
I shrug. “I see the appeal.”
“Right?”
I laugh. He bites his lip. God, he’s adorable. And sweet. And I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I am so grateful.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry I ran away. I just… I don’t have much—or reallyanyexperience. So I got nervous, and I freaked out and… I’m just sorry.”
“No,” he smooths a hand along my cheek. “No, hey. Don’t apologize.”
“Okay,” I say softly. “But just so we’re clear, I don’t plan on doing that anymore.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Good.” He leans in and kisses me again. Softly, this time.
I melt against him, opening up, pulling him close and?—
“Hang on, where did you get a boombox?”
“Oh. Um, the Theater Department props room? I should actually get it back before someone notices it’s gone.” He wrinkles his nose.
“Wait, you stole for me?” I’m grinning. I can’t help it.
“I mean, I’d prefer to think of it as temporary appropriation.”
“Oh, I see.” I run my hand along the collar of his jersey. “And this?”
“Oh, this I full-on stole from Gavin.”
I fist the fabric in my hand and pull him back to me. “Why is that so hot?”
“Mmm, don’t know, don’t care.”
