Lola:Depends. Are you planning on saying something dumb in the next 30 seconds?
The reply is instant.
Jace:Probably
I don’t even hesitate.
Lola:Then stab it is.
I’m invested now, and I hate it. I type, delete, then type again.
Lola:I gave you Oreos yesterday, and you didn’t even say thank you.
There’s a pause this time, long enough for me to wonder if I pushed it too far—long enough for my brain to start overthinking tone, intent, and why I care at all.
Then the text appears.
Jace:I said thank you with my eyes.
I roll mine so hard it almost hurts.
Lola:Your eyes were looking at my ass.
Three dots appear, then disappear, then reappear.
Jace:That was the thank you.
Another laugh slips out of me before I can hold it back. The kind that sneaks up on you and makes your chest feel lighter than it has any right to be.
Lola:You’re impossible.
Jace:And yet you’re still texting me.
I pause with my thumb hovering.
He’s not wrong.
I glance down at my pasta, at my book, then back at my phone. The silence no longer feels quite as empty.
Lola:Don’t read too much into it.
Jace:It’s too late.
My lips curve despite myself.
I hate that this feels so easy. That the banter falls back into place like it never left at all. That, for a few stupid minutes, I’m not aware of being forgotten.
I take another bite and pull one leg up under me, smiling at my phone as if it’s hiding secrets.
I stab my fork into another piece of pasta, already halfway to my mouth, when the chair across from me scrapes loudly against the floor.
I don’t even have time to raise my eyes before someone sits into it, legs spread.
Jace Cooper.
My stomach flips so hard it’s annoying.
He leans back first, eyes sweeping across the table. Over the battered paperback, the container of pasta, and then finally up to my face, as if he’s taking inventory.
