The check came. I reached for it.
Liam's hand got there first.
"I got it," he said.
"Liam—"
"I got it." He was already pulling his wallet out. He opened it and I saw him do the math. The quick glance at the bills inside. The micro-calculation that I never had to do.
Two sandwiches. Two coffees. Twenty-six dollars and change.
"Let me get this one," I said.
"I said I got it."
"You get it next time."
"Alex." He looked at me. That thing in his eyes—not pride exactly, something sharper. The reflex of a guy who'd spent his whole life watching rich people pay for things and swearing he'd never be on the receiving end. "I can pay for my lunch."
"I know you can. I want to." I held his gaze. "You drove — wait, I drove. You picked the music. I pick up the check. That's how dates work."
"Oh, so you're an expert on dates now?"
"I'm a fast learner."
He held the check for another second. The internal fight visible on his face—the part of him that would rather eat nothing than owe someone. Then something loosened. He set the check down. Slid it toward me.
"Next time is mine," he said.
"Deal."
"I mean it. Next time I'm paying. Even if it's a place with cloth napkins and you order something with a French name."
"I would never."
"You absolutely would."
I put my card down. The barista took it.
"Thank you," he said, like it cost him more than the meal would have.
"You're welcome."
We walked back out onto Main street. The storefronts stretching in both directions. The sun higher now, warm enough to cut through the chill. Liam walked close to me—closer than he ever walked on campus. Our shoulders bumping. His hand brushing mine between our bodies, not holding, just touching. The kind of contact that would be invisible to anyone passing but felt enormous to me.
Liam stopped. He was looking at something across the street.
"What?" I asked.
"Thrift store." He nodded toward a storefront with a hand-painted sign: SECOND CHANCES — VINTAGE & THRIFT. The windows were cluttered with old lamps, picture frames, a mannequin in a denim jacket.
"You want to go in?"
He looked at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. Warm, and mischievous. Like he was about to show me something about his world the way I'd just told him something about mine.
"You ever been in a thrift store, Harrington?"
"I've... been in stores."
