Chapter Text
i.
When Steven told me he was proposing to Taylor a year ago, I wasn’t surprised. They were Taylor and Steven. The on-and-off couple that just couldn’t seem to stay away from each other. It took them a few years to quit their stupid act and finally commit. And that was it. That’s how they became this inseparable, powerful, and so stupidly in-love couple that would make anyone want to hurl at the sight of them.
So of course their engagement party had to be just as dramatic and over-the-top as their entire relationship. Hosted at their townhouse in Boston—the one they bought together last fall—the whole thing felt less like a casual celebration and more like a pre-wedding event. Clean white walls, soft beige accents, fresh florals in delicate vases. A long table sat near the window, decorated beautifully with an assortment of cheeses, crackers, fruits, and tiny jars of jam with handwritten labels. Servers in black shirts and beige aprons weaved through the crowd with trays of hors d'oeuvres that looked like they belonged in a Vogue spread. It was all very them. Polished, curated, intentional.
The party had only just begun. More guests were still arriving. Him, most of all.
My mom called me over to talk to some relatives. It was a trick she’d used for years—to escape a conversation and toss me into it instead. I took a deep breath and walked over anyway. Anything to keep me from spiraling.
I half-listened to some aunt I was pretty sure I’d never met before. But the distraction didn’t last long—not when I caught a glimpse of someone across the room. Tall, lean, impossibly familiar. Messy curls and blue eyes that could still feel like a punch to the gut.
Jeremiah.
We started walking toward each other at the same time. No words, just a quiet, mutual pull. When we finally hugged, it was warm. Comforting, almost. But not quite. Because Jeremiah wasn’t home. Maybe he never really had been. He’d been safety, familiarity, a version of love I thought I could hold on to. But not the kind that burrowed into your bones and stayed.
After Jeremiah and I called off the wedding, I flew to Paris for my fall semester, just as I’d planned. I don’t regret it—not even a little. Being away gave me space. Time to figure myself out, to untangle all the knots I’d been ignoring for years. It was the first decision I’d made purely for me, and it mattered.
When I was in Paris, I forced myself to believe things would never be the same again—that I had lost them, both of them. That whatever we had was gone for good. But at graduation, when I spotted Jeremiah in the crowd, something inside me softened. It didn’t erase the awkwardness—it was still painfully, unbearably awkward—but it reminded me of the friendship I thought I’d lost forever. His presence didn’t change the fact that we’d broken apart, but it felt good. Healing, almost, to see him there. For the first time since the almost-wedding, it felt like maybe we could be what we were always meant to be: friends.
I had expected Conrad to show up too. I was almost sure he would. And when he didn’t, a part of me cracked wide open. I swallowed it down like I always did, convincing myself I was stupid for hoping. I broke his heart—he said I did—and I did nothing to fix it. Nothing. Conrad and I hadn’t spoken since that day. Not a call, not a text, not a scrap of information. I knew absolutely nothing about him, and maybe it was better that way.
“How have you been, Bells?” Jeremiah asked now, taking a step back. His hands shoved deep in his pockets, his weight rocking back and forth like he couldn’t stand still. His smile was easy but a little too forced, like he was trying to bridge a gap we both knew was permanent.
“I’ve been good,” I told him honestly. “Still settling into the big apple.”
Shortly after graduating, I got accepted into the Master’s program in Sports Psychology at NYU. My hopes had been low—I hadn’t expected to get in, let alone with a scholarship—but somehow, I did. And it’s almost everything I could have wanted. It still feels surreal sometimes. I get to live in New York City, in my tiny, crappy apartment with the perpetually leaking faucet and the kind of rent that makes me cry every month. I ride the subway, I spend afternoons tucked in coffee shops, I watch the skyline change colors at dusk. It’s hard, yes. Overpriced groceries, constant delays, the loneliness of living alone. But it’s mine. And I love it.
“That’s...good. I’m happy for you.” Jeremiah’s smile softened as he bounced on the balls of his feet, like he was standing in shoes that didn’t quite fit anymore.
I gave him a polite smile in return. “So… a little birdie told me you’re working now?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah. I’ve been at this PR firm. Nothing glamorous, but… it’s a real adult job.”
“I’m glad for you, Jere.” My voice was gentle, careful. “I knew you’d figure it out.”
“Thanks, Bells.” He said it softly, like the words carried history neither of us wanted to touch.
Before I could respond, Steven swooped in, smacking Jeremiah on the back and dragging him into conversation. That felt like my cue to retreat.
I slipped away toward the bar, ordering a glass of white wine I hadn’t planned on drinking so soon. It was too early to be here already, but here I was. The first sip burned a little as it went down.
I told myself not to stare at the door. Not to keep checking every time it opened, not to let the possibility of him undo me before the night even began. But restraint was never my strong suit, not when it came to him.
He still hadn’t shown up. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe that would be easier.
Or maybe I just wanted to believe that so I’d stop looking at the door every few minutes, hoping.
Conrad sees her the moment he walks in.
She’s sitting alone at the bar, slightly angled away from the party. Her hair falls in dark waves down her back—longer than he remembers. She’s wearing a pale yellow dress, soft and simple, but it hugs her in the places he used to know by heart. Maybe it’s not the dress at all. Maybe it’s just her. The quiet tilt of her head. The way she brushes her hair behind her ear, slow and habitual. The way her lips graze the rim of her wine glass.
It’s too familiar. And yet it knocks the air right out of his lungs.
His body moves before his mind can catch up, feet carrying him forward on instinct alone. But before he can reach her, she turns her head—like she feels him coming. Their eyes meet across the room, and just like that, time stalls. Everything else dims.
She swallows. He sees it from here. Then, just as quickly, she wipes her palms on her dress. It’s such a small, nervous thing—and yet it settles something in him. It’s the same thing she used to do before she held his hand.
His mouth lifts at the corners, instinctive and unthinking. She always made him smile without trying.
It’s enough to steady him. To close the distance and take the seat beside her at the bar.
"Hi," he breathes.
"Hi." She smiles.
There it is. That same damn smile that used to undo him. That still does.
For a second, he forgets the time. Forgets the years. He’s eighteen again, heart too full, always two steps behind her. But he isn’t eighteen. And neither is she. They’ve grown, unraveled, rewired. Still, something in him aches with recognition.
"Your hair’s longer," he says, before he can stop himself.
Not exactly what he meant to lead with. He curses inwardly, but she lets out a soft laugh, surprised.
It breaks the tension like sunlight through fog. Even after five years, her laugh is the same—bright, full of life. It hits him in the chest like a memory he wasn’t prepared for. He’s reminded of the times she’d laugh with him, at him. The way she used to toss her head back, scrunch her nose, rest a hand on his shoulder when she couldn’t breathe from laughing so hard. Back then, he used to think that if he could hear that laugh every day, maybe life wouldn’t be so heavy. And for a while, it wasn’t.
"I let it grow out this time," she replies, eyes glinting. "Yours looks shorter than the last time I saw you."
She’s teasing him now, just a little. Like they’re slipping into an old rhythm.
"Yeah, well... I got a haircut. Or like... forty. Since I last saw you."
The words hang there. Quiet. Too much space between them, and yet too much history packed into a sentence.
Conrad knows how long it’s been. God, he knows.
Every day of the last five years stretched out without her—aching, endless. Even when it got easier to exist without her, she never really left him. Not truly. He would think of her at the most random times: whenever it snowed, whenever Christmas lights went up, whenever he passed a display of sour patch kids at a gas station. Every time he saw a box of peaches at the farmer’s market in California, he’d picture her hand reaching for the ripest one.
She haunted the edges of his ordinary life—quiet and persistent like a heartbeat. She was a magnet, always pulling at something inside him, no matter how many miles or missed chances stood in the way.
"It’s been a long time, huh?" she says, voice gentler now. There’s something else behind it—something like grief, softened by time.
He nods, barely. It’s all he can manage. There’s too much he wants to say. Too much that’s still stuck in his chest.
"You look good, Conrad."
He ducks his head at that, lets out a breath of laughter he didn’t know he was holding. Heat pricks at his neck.
"So do you, Belly."
And it’s true. It hits him all at once. How good she looks. How much he missed her. How much he still—
He clears his throat.
"I should probably say hi to the happy couple," he says, glancing toward the crowd. Then, hesitating, "Wait for me?"
She doesn’t even blink.
"Of course I will."
Just five words. But the way she says them—soft and steady—it feels like a promise.
He gives her one last look, one last smile, then disappears into the noise of the party.
As soon as Conrad disappears into the crowd, I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I was holding. My fingers tap restlessly against the stem of my wine glass, still cold in my hand. I down the rest in one go and can’t help but think about how great he looks. He still looks like Conrad—but older, more sure of himself. His once softer features have sharpened with time. But not his eyes. His eyes are just as soft as before—the kind you could stare at for hours.
I glance at the crowd and spot him giving Steven a bro hug, then pulling Taylor in for a quick side hug. As he talks to them, his eyes flick over to me—and for a moment, we lock eyes. But it’s short-lived.
My attention shifts when I see my mom rushing toward him, pulling him into one of her signature mom-hugs. I can’t help but notice how naturally he folds into her arms, like it’s the safest place in the world. They’ve always shared something special—his Laura. The sight sparks something in me. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s there, burning quietly.
I don’t know if it’s nostalgia or just this ache I’ve been carrying since the moment he walked in. Maybe it’s all of it at once. Maybe it’s the way he fits here so effortlessly, like he never left. Like nothing ever broke.
But things did break. We broke. And I’ve spent so long trying to glue myself back together, piece by piece, pretending it still didn't still hurt in all the same places. Now here he is—standing in the middle of everything, still somehow the center of my world. And all I can do is sit here with an empty wine glass and a heart that won’t stop racing.
It’s barely been fifteen minutes when I sense someone approach. I don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
“You waited,” he says, voice low, a little surprised.
I glance over, trying to play it cool. “You asked me to.”
Of course I waited. I waited for five years for the moment our paths would cross again—for the chance to look into his soft, dark eyes. To see his crooked, yet somehow perfect smile.
The smile that could floor me in seconds.
The fact that it took five years for us to be this close to each other again—it aches. But in some strange way, it also feels right. Because in those five years, we’ve grown. We’ve matured. We’ve had time to figure ourselves out, to soften the edges that once made us sharp and reckless.
Maybe now… we could be more understanding. More forgiving.
He huffs a soft laugh and pulls out the chair next to me, sitting down without hesitation this time. There’s a beat of silence—not awkward, just full.
“So,” he starts, leaning back a little, “I heard from your mom… you’re in New York now?”
I nod. “Yeah, for my masters.”
He raises his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips. “The city suits you.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
I smile, letting that sit between us for a moment.
“And you? Still in California?”
He pauses, then shakes his head. “Actually… I just applied for a residency. In New York. I’ve been living there for about a month now.”
My heart does a thing. “Seriously?”
And suddenly, I feel like I’m dreaming.
Conrad and I, in the same city? No—worse. We’ve been living in the same city for an entire month and I had no idea.
The heartbreak I’ve been carrying, the one I’ve never fully recovered from… has been just a few subway stops away from me this whole time.
I feel something warm bloom in my chest—like hope, maybe. Or the beginning of something good. It spreads slowly, curling at the edges of my ribs like light sneaking through a cracked door. It feels like the start of something I don’t fully understand, but maybe don’t need to.
Not yet.
“Yeah. I have to tell you, it was a bit of a surprise hearing from Laurel that you moved there as well.”
“So we’re—”
“Basically neighbors,” he finishes, eyes glinting.
There’s a flicker of something electric in the space between us now. It wasn’t there a moment ago, but now it is—unspoken and undeniable.
“Well,” I say, swirling the stem of my empty glass, “that’s… something.”
“It is,” he says, eyes on me.
He doesn’t look away, and neither do I. It’s like we’re caught in a moment neither of us planned for, but both somehow recognize—a strange pause in time that feels heavier than it should.
Maybe it’s the wine, or the music, or just the fact that I haven’t seen him in so long. Or maybe it’s nostalgia playing one of its cruel, familiar tricks, tugging at something I thought I’d buried for good. And yet, something shifts. Not a return to the past—we’re too far from that now—but a subtle nudge forward. A step I didn’t ask for. One I’m not even sure I want. I hate that it’s happening. I do.
But I can’t lie to myself. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, uninvited and persistent, something settles in quietly.
Hope.
Notes:
Hi! I hope you enjoyed this chapter :)) The chapters will progressively get longer so keep that in mind! See you in the next chapter!!
update: 3/9/25 I have made slight changes in this chapter, nothing drastic or anything to pay attention to<3
Chapter 2: ii.
Notes:
Hii! I know I said that i would post once a week, but i thought why the fuck not right?
When i read everyone's comments from the first chapter, let me tell you: a weight was truly lifted off my shoulders. The extreme nervousness that I had felt completely disappeared :)) The comments made my day, keep them coming please! Boost this girl's ego (LMAO).
Fun things happen in this chapter so have fun! I'm the one who wrote it but it had ME giggling and kicking my feet.
Have fun and see you in the end! x
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
ii.
Hope is a weird thing.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t hopeful even before I saw him again today. There was always hope—but it was usually buried under layers of overthinking and what-ifs. Hope has always felt like a dangerous thing to hold on to. A fragile thread I wrapped around my heart so tightly, it left marks. It crept in late at night, when I was alone and most honest with myself. When the world got quiet enough, I’d let myself imagine the what-could-have-beens. Or worse—the what-could-still-bes. But seeing him again tonight… it’s like something sharp but sweet split my chest wide open.
Now, I sit across from him at the bar, watching in amusement as he tries not to choke on his wine, laughing at some ridiculous incident I reminded him of from the beach house. His laugh is different now—deeper, fuller—but it still has that same boyish tilt that used to make my heart skip back when we were sixteen.
“I can’t believe how long ago that was,” he manages between laughs.
“Yeah, well, we’ve all grown up now, haven’t we?” I say, taking a sip of what’s probably my third glass of wine of the night. The glass feels cool against my fingers, grounding. “We’ve all changed so much.”
“You’ve certainly grown up,” he says, and suddenly it feels like the air between us changes. I can feel the heat of his gaze before I look up. He’s looking straight into my eyes like he’s trying to say something without actually saying it. “Definitely haven’t changed, though. You’re still the same old Belly that I…”
He stops. I catch the slight movement in his throat as he swallows.
“Knew,” he finishes.
My heart stutters, like it’s trying to tell me something my brain hasn’t caught up with yet. I want to ask him what he was going to say. What he stopped himself from admitting. But I already know. I’ve always known.
“You still know me,” I say softly, and before I can stop myself, I start to move my hand toward his. The pull is so natural, like muscle memory. Like my body remembers the shape of him, the comfort of him, in ways my mind pretends it doesn’t. But at the last second, I lose my nerve and grab my glass instead. I can’t go there. Not yet, at least. Not when everything between us still feels like an open wound that never fully healed.
“Not this grown-up version of you. I mean, look at you! Drinking wine—legally now, might I add,” he teases.
I can’t help but giggle, the memories of us drunk as teenagers flashing through my mind. The fourth of July pomegranate margaritas, the party we threw when we almost lost the beach house, it’s all coming back to me, or maybe it never left.
“Living alone and everything.” he breathes out, almost in disbelief.
I nod, the weight of those words settling in. I don’t think he knows how hard I fought to become this version of myself. How many nights I cried, how many pieces I picked up along the way. And yet, here he is, making me feel seventeen again with one look. It’s terrifying how easily he can unravel me.
“We can still get to know the grown-up versions of each other. It’s not too late.”
I don’t know where the words come from, but they feel right. Honest. My pinky reaches out almost instinctively, brushing against his. It’s subtle—barely a touch—but it sends a jolt through me, like static. Like every nerve ending in my body just lit up at once. It’s ridiculous how one little touch can make me feel everything at once—longing, regret, hope, fear. Mostly hope. And that’s the scariest part of all.
“Yeah?” he asks, giving me one of his signature half-smirk, half-smiles that I’ve always secretly adored.
That smile—God, that smile—could disarm armies. I wonder if he knows what it does to me. I wonder if he feels the same rush that I do when our eyes meet like this, like we’re still those two kids on the beach pretending not to fall in love.
“Yeah.”
We look at each other in silence. But there’s so much said in the silence. I see the years we missed, the apologies we never said, the versions of ourselves we kept hidden. I wonder if he’s thinking about that summer night when everything changed. I wonder if he regrets it. Or if he ever stopped thinking about me.
“Let’s go mingle. What do you say?” I finally offer, breaking the eye contact that definitely lasted too long.
“Lead the way.”
“Belly, what the actual fuck?” Taylor nearly yells the second we step into the washroom.
Oh boy. Here we go.
“What?” I try to act clueless, but before I can get a hold of myself, a smile creeps up on my face. It’s involuntary—like my body is betraying me, outing me before I can get my story straight.
“Oh, don’t give me that, Conklin. I’ve been watching you and Conrad get real cozy at the bar for the past hour.”
She’s calling me out, and there’s no getting past her. Nothing ever does. Taylor’s always had a sixth sense when it came to me and Conrad. Sometimes I think she’s more aware of my feelings than I am. Or maybe just more willing to admit them.
“Is there something going on?” she asks again, softer this time. There’s a flicker of concern behind the sass.
“No! I mean… maybe? I don’t know,” I panic. The words tumble out like pebbles down a hill, messy and ungraceful. “There’s a vibe, but it’s nothing obvious. He could be dating someone for all I know!”
Taylor grabs me by the shoulders like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk.
“Belly, when I say this, I need you to know I’m saying it with love.”
I brace myself.
“You are really fucking dumb. You were before, and you still are now. It’s actually insane how oblivious you are to that boy’s—sorry, man’s —love for you. He didn’t just come here for the party. He came here for you, Belly.”
I freeze. Something about the way she says it—so sure, so unapologetically honest—makes my chest ache. Because deep down, I think I know she’s right. I just don’t want to believe it. Because if I believe it, that means I have something to lose.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Tay,” I roll my eyes at her and head to the sink, washing my hands just to keep them busy. The cold water jolts me, but not enough to shake the truth of her words.
“Oh, I’m definitely not the ridiculous one. I just think it’s about damn time you both quit being stupid, Cinderbelly ,” she says, wrapping her arms around me from behind.
I lean into her a little. Her hug is familiar, grounding. And right now, I need something that isn’t Conrad to hold me steady.
“But what if I fuck it up again?” I finally whisper. “And maybe this time… there’s no going back. What if it doesn’t work out?”
Taylor pulls back just enough to look at me in the mirror. Her eyes meet mine, and they’re steady. Certain. The kind of certainty I haven’t felt in years.
“But what if it does?”
I push the door open and step onto the patio, the hum of the party fading behind me. The night air is cool against my skin, a quiet contrast to the heat and closeness of the house behind me. It smells like salt and summer—distant ocean air, mixed with the faint scent of beer and citronella candles. My heels click softly against the wood as I walk, but otherwise it feels like the world has gone still for a moment.
Conrad’s already out there, leaning against the railing.
His silhouette looks familiar and foreign all at once. The same posture I remember from summers past—shoulders slightly hunched, one hand in his pocket, like he’s carrying a weight he won’t name. But he’s older now. His jaw is more defined, his hair a little longer, his frame broader. And still, somehow, he’s the same boy I’ve always known.
He glances over his shoulder. “There you are.”
I raise an eyebrow, trying to play it cool, even as my pulse quickens just from the sound of his voice. “Were you looking for me?”
He shrugs, but there’s that barely-there smile tugging at his lips. It’s not a full smile—it’s too cautious for that. But it’s something. “Maybe. You do have a habit of disappearing.”
The words land heavier than they should. Disappearing. I know he means it lightly, but part of me wonders if that’s what he’s always thought—that I ran away. That I gave up.
“I was just taking a break,” I say, walking toward the railing beside him.
“From me?” he says, turning slightly toward me now.
“From the noise,” I say, but I’m smiling.
Even now, there’s this push and pull between us. It’s gentle tonight, but familiar. It’s the kind of rhythm you fall back into without even thinking, like breathing or dancing to a song you’ve always known the steps to.
I notice him open his mouth but close it again, as if he wants to say something but can’t seem to find the right words. He’s always been like that—with everyone else, he’s so composed, so sharp. But with me, the words sometimes tangle.
“What is it?” I ask him, now turning to face him.
“Why didn’t you reply to my letters?” he questions, without looking at me, avoiding my eyes.
My breath catches. “Letters?”
“What letters, Con?” I ask, confused.
A knot forms in my stomach. Letters? What is he talking about? My mind flicks back to Paris. I hardly ever checked my mailbox—everything important came to my email anyway. But still, if he had sent something, I would have seen it. I know I would have seen it. Nothing ever came from Conrad.
If he really wrote to me, and I never saw them…
“What letters?” I repeat, softer this time, heart pounding.
“Come on now, Belly. Don’t you think we’re too old to do this now? Did you at least read them?”
He turns toward me now. I notice his eyes shining—he was tearing up.
God, he’s crying. And not in that angsty, dramatic way we used to cry over each other as kids. This is something deeper. Older. Worn-out from carrying too much for too long. I feel something ache in my chest.
His pain hits me like a gut punch. It’s the look of someone who loved quietly, and lost loudly. The kind of pain that festers not because you were hurt—but because you were misunderstood.
Before I can even think, my hand moves to his. I lay my hand on top of his.
“I didn’t get any letter, Conrad.”
This time, he’s the one who looks confused.
“You really didn’t get the letters?”
I shake my head, my voice stuck in my throat.
“She didn’t get the letters,” he mumbles to himself.
My mind is racing. Were they lost in transit? Did someone else get them? Did I miss a chance I didn’t even know I had?
“What was in the letters?” I ask.
There’s a shift in the air—like everything’s gone still, waiting for his answer. Even the breeze seems to pause, as if it’s holding its breath. I can feel it in my throat, in the way my heart pounds faster, as if preparing for something that could change everything.
“It doesn’t matter anymore now, does it?” he says quietly, voice flat.
I blink. “Of course it matters. Why would you say that?”
How can he act like this is nothing? Like it’s over? It’s never just been nothing with Conrad. Even the silences, the spaces between us, have always held weight. Some of our loudest moments came without a single word.
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh. “It’s been years now, Belly. It’s fine.”
It’s not fine. It’s never been fine. Not when it comes to him. Not when I still think about him every time Christmas comes around, or whenever it snows.
He turns, taking a step back toward the door.
Without thinking, I reach out and grab his wrist. “What was in the letters, Conrad?”
My voice is softer this time, trembling. I can feel the sting in my eyes, the tears threatening to spill.
Please just tell me. Please don’t walk away from this. Not again.
He stops, but he doesn’t pull away.
He exhales slowly, then turns to face me again. His face softens the moment he sees mine.
“I started writing them about two years after the wedding got called off.”
And it hits her, she was in Paris at that time. It has been three years since he sent her the letters. Three years of Conrad thinking that I never replied to them. The thought of that makes her heart ache in a way she can’t describe.
“At first, it was just updates. Stupid stuff—how I was doing, what I had heard from Laurel and Steven about you. But then, the more I wrote, the more it turned into something else. I started writing like I was talking to you, really talking to you. Like I could say all the things I was too afraid to say out loud.”
I stay silent, afraid that if I speak, I’ll cry.
My heart twists. I can picture him—sitting somewhere quiet, maybe in his car or lying in bed late at night—pouring his heart into those letters. Words he couldn’t say aloud. Things he never felt safe enough to say in person. And all that time, I was an ocean away, wondering if he’d forgotten me. And he must’ve thought the same.
“I told you how I felt, Belly. About us. About you. I told you I missed you. That I loved you. That I’d probably always love you.”
I couldn’t help it anymore. A single tear rolled down my cheek before I could even stop it.
“I wrote for a year. Once a month, for a year, Belly. I thought you were over me. Over us. So I stopped. I didn’t want to bother you more than I already had”
He looks away now, eyes glassy.
“That’s why I didn’t come to your graduation,” he says, barely above a whisper. “I couldn’t face you. I mean, how could I?”
The air feels thick, like I’m breathing through water. I want to say something, anything to erase the guilt settling in my bones. He thought I ignored him. He thought I didn’t care. And that thought—the idea that he spent all this time believing I’d abandoned him—hurts more than I know how to express.
“Conrad…”
He shakes his head gently. “It’s fine, Belly. I’m fine.”
But he’s not. I can see it in the way his hands are clenched, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the cracks in his voice, in the way he wouldn’t look me in the eye.
“I would’ve written you back, you know. Of course I would have. If I knew… that you wrote to me, I would've written back to you. I couldn’t help but think about you all these years.”
My voice cracks a little, but I don’t care. “Do you know how difficult it’s been? Not being able to talk to you all these years?”
The words fall out before I can hold them back. It’s like something inside me is breaking loose, something I’ve kept caged for far too long.
Yes, we had fights. Yes, we both hurt each other. But none of that erased what he meant to me. I didn’t just lose the love of my life. I lost my best friend. And there were so many days when I’d pick up my phone, halfway through dialing his number, only to stop. I’d wonder if he still thought of me. If I even crossed his mind.
“Yes, we fucked up a lot when we were young,” I continue, “but I also missed my friend.”
The silence that follows is loud enough to drown out the party behind us.
“Please don’t shut me out,” I say softly. “I can’t do this all over again.”
Conrad doesn’t respond right away. He just stands there, like he’s trying to figure out how to breathe.
“I don’t think I can either,” he finally says.
The silence that follows isn’t easy. It stretches between us—thick, hesitant, almost too heavy to carry. But we don’t let go.
“So what does this mean?” he asks, voice quieter now.
I look at him, eyes stinging. “I don’t want to fuck this up again, Conrad. I can’t do that to us. To you.”
He doesn’t say anything right away.
For a moment, he just stands there—completely still, completely quiet. Like he’s lost in some memory, some version of us that used to be. His brows furrow slightly, lips parting like he wants to speak but doesn’t know how. And then, almost like something shifts behind his eyes, he exhales—slow, certain.
It’s like he makes a decision right then.
He takes a step toward me. Then another. His eyes stay locked on mine.
“Then let’s take it slow. Let’s start over,” he says.
I don’t say anything. I don’t think I completely understand what he even means. Start over? What would that even look like?
“Belly,” he says, voice thick now, “I meant it. When I first told you that you’re it for me—I meant every word.”
He steps closer.
“I can’t lose you. I almost lost you when my mom died. Then again when you almost got married. And now… this might be my last chance.”
He’s not hiding anymore. He’s looking right at me, eyes shining, voice steady even as it trembles.
“I want to take the risk. I want to show you that I’ve changed, that I’ve grown. I want to love you the way you’ve always deserved to be loved.”
I suck in a shaky breath.
“If I don’t take this chance now,” he says, “I might lose you. Forever.”
My heart feels too full, like it might spill over. He’s offering something fragile and real and terrifying—and I want to take it.
“So…” I whisper, “how does this work?”
“Let’s take it slow. We’re not teenagers anymore, Belly. Look at us.” he says, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I want to know you again. I want to be close to you again. I want to love you again—as the grown versions of ourselves.”
He hesitates just a second, then slowly lifts his hand. It hovers in the air between us, palm open.
“Start over with me?” he asks.
My eyes fall to his hand, then back to his face.
Memories hit me all at once—us at Cousins, kissing on the beach, dates in his car, our late-night calls when he’d rant about his college roommate, that night in Cousins. The way he looked at me the night before the wedding—the last time he ever told me he loved me.
I can’t lose him again.
My life is so different now. I live alone, I have a job I care about, I’ve made peace with so much of who I used to be. But there’s one thing I’ve never quite figured out—how to move forward without him in it.
What if this is the chance?
But what if it does work? I remember Taylor’s words from before.
I lift my hand.
Fingers trembling, heart racing—I meet his halfway.
And just like that, the hope ignites again.
Notes:
Are you guys well? Because i wasn’t when i wrote this😭
Also! I am trying to figure out the best time to post, so if anyone has tips or suggestions, please leave a comment! I’d also love to hear what time you typically read on AO3 (along with your time zone) it would really help me figure things out based on actual reader habits. Thank you🫶🏼
Please leave kudos, comments and subscribe to get a notification everytime i post :))
See you soon<3
Chapter 3: iii.
Notes:
Hii! I really said that i would post once a week but here i am, posting for the third time in a week LMAO. I have no self control CLEARLY.
I was facing some issues with the last chapter's beginning and end notes and its still there! I have given up so let's ignore that :))
Also reading the comments and replies from the last chapter made me so happy! A big thanks to everyone who replied about my doubt regarding the timings, hopefully i have it figured out now!
A lot of exciting things happen in this chapter so enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
iii.
I rush out of my apartment, skipping my usual routine of double-checking after locking it. My keys jingle in my hand as I fly down the hallway, heart already pounding. I’m practically sprinting to the elevator and miss it by barely a second. The doors slide shut with a soft ding right in my face.
“Fuck!” I mutter, punching the wall next to the elevator. Things are already going against me. I’ve been nervous enough the entire day, and now the universe is finding its own twisted way to fuck with me further.
I glance at the screen above the elevator—stuck on the second floor.
“Fuck it,” I mumble, turning on my heel toward the stairwell, heels clicking sharply with every hurried step.
It’s been two weeks since the engagement party, and Conrad and I have been texting nonstop since. Talking about everything and nothing, sending updates that hardly even mattered. Somehow, each little exchange made the space between us feel a little smaller.
It took him two weeks to build up the courage to ask me out to dinner. When the message came through, my heart stuttered. I tried not to respond right away—tried not to let the yes fly out too fast. I made sure to play it cool, to reply casually, even though my hands were slightly shaking. The truth was, I felt nervous. I felt scared.
Because saying yes meant stepping into something real again. Something that could break me all over if I wasn’t careful.
And now, here I am—rushing to make it to the restaurant on time, hoping that Conrad is somewhere on the other side of the city, racing the clock like I am. But I know that’s not true. Because it’s Conrad. Conrad can’t help but be obnoxiously on time to pretty much everything.
When Conrad asked me to dinner, he didn’t say the word date . Just, “Dinner sometime?” Casual. Easy. I said yes anyway. Maybe I should’ve asked what he meant—but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. We had agreed to start over, whatever that meant, and I was trying not to overthink it. Still, a small part of me wondered: was this just dinner, or was it something more?
I’m not sure what to expect. What if I misread his text? What if this is a date? I don’t think I’d mind that—it sounds scary and a bit fast, but I wouldn’t mind it. Would he hold my hand? Kiss me goodnight?
Fuck, I think. I should probably get all the overthinking out of my system before I even get there.
I’m five minutes away from the restaurant when my phone buzzes with a text from Conrad.
Conrad
Hey Belly, I’m at the restaurant. Running a little late?
Of course .
I text back, letting him know that I’m almost there.
Before walking in, I pause outside the restaurant and take a deep breath, trying to steady myself for whatever’s waiting inside. The night air is cooler than I expected, brushing softly against my skin. I smooth down my dress with both hands, then pull out my phone and open the camera—reapplying my gloss for what’s probably the third time today. Just in case.
Conrad tries to keep himself distracted by fiddling with his phone. Belly had texted back almost immediately, saying she was almost there. Still, a moment before that message came in, he couldn’t shake the thought—what if she didn’t show up? Why would she, really? There was no clear implication that this was a date. It felt too soon for that. He couldn’t afford to scare her off. Not again.
When he asked her to dinner, it had taken him ten whole minutes just to find the right words. He didn’t want to sound like he was officially asking her out, but he also didn’t want her to think this was just some casual, friendly catch-up. It was something in between. A small step forward. A chance to start over.
He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he hears someone say his last name. He looks up and spots Belly talking to the hostess, asking for him. The moment her eyes meet his and she smiles, something in him stills. She looks beautiful. There are a hundred other ways to describe her, but none of them seem to do her justice. She’s wearing a sage green dress that skims her frame and falls just above her ankles, the silky fabric catching the light with every shift of her body. The short, ruched sleeves brush her shoulders, drawing his gaze upward, while the gentle sweep of the skirt makes her seem almost weightless. Her long dark brown hair—tied back in a sleek high ponytail—frames her face perfectly. Conrad can’t help but look at her slowly, from head to toe, his gaze lingering just a little longer on her lips—glossy and pink, catching the light in a way that makes it impossible not to notice.
“You know, if you took a picture, it’d probably last longer,” Belly teases, a playful glint in her eyes as she slides into the seat across from him.
Conrad snaps out of his quiet admiration, blinking once before exhaling a soft, “Hi.”
“Hi,” she replies, that beautiful smile tugging at her lips—the one that’s always undone him a little.
“Sorry I got so late,” she starts, already mid-ramble. “I spilled something on my clothes and then I missed the elevator and then—”
Conrad doesn’t interrupt. He just watches her, amused, like her voice itself is grounding him. Like he’s soaking her in after too long apart. She’s still Belly—the girl who gets flustered, who rambles when she’s nervous, who fills the silence with soft chatter. But now, she’s something more. Grown. Poised. There’s a steadiness to her he hadn’t fully noticed before.
He wonders what shaped her in the years he wasn’t there to see. Some things haven’t changed—her laugh, the way her hands move when she talks, the way she avoids eye contact when she’s flustered. But other things have. Her features have sharpened, the baby softness long gone. Her posture is different now—shoulders squared, chin lifted, like she knows who she is. Like she doesn’t need anyone to steady her anymore.
“Conrad,” she says again, firmer this time, catching his wandering gaze.
He smirks. “Same old Belly, huh.”
Belly blushes, looking down for a second as she mumbles, “Shut it.”
Conrad’s smirk softens. “You look good, Belly,” he says, his voice a little unsure, like he’s still figuring out the right words as he goes.
She looks up, grinning. “You don’t look so bad yourself, doctor.”
He laughs under his breath. “Belly, I’m not even a medical resident yet, but I’ll get there someday.”
“I can’t believe how far you’ve come,” she says, her voice gentler now. “Feels like just yesterday you told me you were switching your major to biology.”
There’s a pause—brief, quiet. They both hold each other’s gaze, something soft and familiar flickering between them. A shared memory, unspoken but understood. They were together then. Young, in love, and full of dreams they didn’t know how to protect.
Maybe they could have that again. Not the reckless, all-consuming love of teenagers, but something steadier—earned. Something they’ve both bled and grown for. The love they once held, the one he still holds, never really disappeared. It just got buried beneath the wreckage of timing and pain.
“It does, doesn’t it,” Conrad murmurs.
Before either of them can say more, the waitress walks up to the table with two menus, politely breaking the moment.
The sound of glasses clinking cuts through the low hum of the restaurant.
Belly and Conrad tap their wine glasses together over some ridiculous toast she came up with— “To living in a city where the rent is high, the coffee’s overpriced, and the pigeons have zero fear.” It makes them both laugh, easing the nerves just a little.
“So,” she says, resting her chin in her hand, “tell me more about this residency of yours.”
Conrad falters for half a second. There’s something about the way she’s looking at him—through her mascara-coated lashes, soft and curious, like she’s really seeing him. She’s so beautiful it physically knocks the air out of his chest. He clears his throat, pulling his focus back.
“Right, yeah. So, I applied for the residency during my last year at Stanford. I was trying not to get my hopes up, but I ended up landing a spot in Internal Medicine—at one of the best hospitals in the city.”
Belly’s eyes widen, impressed. The expression hits him in a place he didn’t know was still vulnerable. He likes that he can still make her look at him like that.
“That’s amazing, Con! Wow. So, when does it start?” she asks, taking a sip of her wine. The red glosses her lips before she licks them clean, and he has to look away for a beat.
“Almost two months from now,” he says, leaning back with a small, deliberate smile. “I’m all yours till then.”
She rolls her eyes, but the smile she gives him in return is playful. “Perfect. My summer break doesn’t end till August, and I’ve got another month before work starts. Works out well then.”
“Right! What’s the job again?” he asks.
Belly’s whole face lights up. She leans in, eyes bright. “I’ll be working with young athletes—some fresh out of high school, some prepping for nationals. I’ll help organize sessions, do research on mental performance strategies… maybe even sit in on a few consultations. We’ll focus on things like pressure, concentration, how the brain affects the body. It’s this whole side of sports I never really thought about before.”
She pauses, grinning a little. “I haven’t met my boss yet, but from what I’ve heard, she’s kind of intense. And kind of amazing.”
Conrad watched her as she spoke, a familiar warmth creeping in. God, she was radiant when she talked about things she loved. Her hands moved wildly, carving shapes in the air, but it was her face that got him—the way her eyes lit up, her grin so wide her cheeks lifted almost to her eyes. He could’ve stared forever.
“That sounds like something you’d be perfect at,” he said, a little surprised at how sincere he sounded.
The night was going perfectly. His nerves from earlier had settled, dulled by her laughter and the easy rhythm of their conversation. But beneath the calm, something stirred. An itch. One he’d been trying to ignore. The question had been sitting on his chest since the moment he saw her again, and if he didn’t ask now, it would eat him alive.
He shifted slightly in his seat, eyes never leaving her. And then, the words tumbled out before he could stop them.
“So… are you seeing anyone?”
Belly blinked, caught off guard. She’d expected the question at some point—how could she not? But not this soon. She glanced down at her plate, pushing the last of her food around with her fork.
“No,” she said quietly. “I’ve gone on a few dates, sure. A couple of relationships here and there, but nothing lasted longer than a month. I just… never felt the fireworks, y’know?” She gave a soft, almost apologetic smile. “And there were a few flings too, I guess. Nothing serious.”
She wasn’t sure why she added that last part. Maybe because this—tonight—felt like a clean slate. And if they were starting over, she didn’t want to leave anything unsaid.
Then, gently: “What about you?”
Conrad hesitated—not because he didn’t have an answer, but because hers had stung more than he expected. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was the realization that she’d been touched, kissed, held by people who weren’t him.
And yeah, he’d done the same. He wasn’t innocent.
“Pretty much the same,” he said finally. “Some relationships. Some flings. But nothing that stuck.”
He paused, not sure if he’d said too much. But she didn’t look away.
Their eyes met across the table, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The years between them filled the silence—unsent texts, birthdays spent apart, the weight of everything they never said. And yet, there was something tender in it too. Like maybe the distance had softened the edges instead of sharpening them.
The waitress came by with a polite smile, collecting their empty plates. “Will this be together or separate?”
Belly and Conrad both answered at the same time—one said together , the other said separate . They looked at each other, laughed. The tension broke like a bubble.
“I’m paying,” Belly said, already reaching for her bag.
“Nope,” Conrad said, slipping his card into the leather check-holder before she could find her wallet.
“Conrad,” she warned, half amused, half serious.
He leaned in slightly, voice low and teasing. “Let me get this one, Belly,” he said, that smirk tugging at his lips. “How about I let you get the next one?”
The words hung there, deliberate.
Not just a joke.
An invitation.
She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. She couldn’t argue. Not when the idea of a next time stirred something warm and wild in her chest. Not when it felt like hope.
“Fine,” she said, pretending to be reluctant.
But she was already looking forward to it.
When they stepped outside the restaurant, the sky had shifted completely. The soft amber glow from the streetlights replaced the early evening light that had welcomed her just hours ago. Belly blinked at the sudden realization—had they really been there that long?
Conrad glanced around the now quieter street before turning to her.
“So… how are you going back?”
“I came here in a cab,” Belly said, breathing in the fresh scent of New York’s finest pollution. She glanced at her phone. “I’ll probably cab it back—if I can even find one at this hour,” she added with a small laugh.
Without hesitation, Conrad said, “I’ll drop you back. Come on.” He was already walking toward his car parked right outside, as if the decision had been made the moment she opened her mouth.
“Conrad, no!” she called out, following him in disbelief. “It’ll take at least an hour to get to my place—and God knows how long to get back to yours. What is it, on the other side of the city?”
He didn’t turn around, just slowed his pace slightly.
“Belly, I’m not gonna leave you here stranded. Come on.”
She knew that finding a cab itself would take a long time. And the fact that she was an hour away from her place didn’t help. The offer was tempting—more than tempting. She wasn’t ready to let him go just yet.
She sighed, the fight slipping out of her like air from a balloon. “Conrad…” she started, already sounding defeated.
“Belly…” he echoed in her same tone, a teasing mimic. Then he gently placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward the car.
She felt it again. That flutter in her chest. The fireworks she thought she’d outgrown.
And God—his touch. She had yearned for it for years. The feeling of his hand, slightly cool against her skin, his fingers rough with calluses. Familiar in a way that made her dizzy. She wonders if he’s missed her touch too, if the memory of it ever haunted him the way his still did her.
When they reached the car, she moved to reach for the door handle herself, but before her fingers could touch it, Conrad was already there, opening the door for her with a quiet ease.
She blinked at him, caught off guard.
“Thank you,” she mumbled, her voice softer than she expected.
He waited until she was settled inside, then closed the door carefully before walking around to the driver’s side.
Sliding into his seat, he buckled up, then handed her his phone—Spotify already open.
“So,” he said, lips twitching into the start of a smile, “shall we?”
Notes:
Hehe i hope you guys enjoyed reading this chapter just as much as i enjoyed writing it! I have the next three chapters all written and i am going to start with the seventh today! I have kind of been in a writing slump for a week but I am getting back to it :))
I would love to know your thoughts on this chapter!
I love fan fictions that are lengthy, has multiple chapters and has a lot of...day to day experiences that the couple goes through together. I guess i like to see the intimacy and the domestic side of the ship. That's why i started writing this fan fiction, i wanted to write what i wanted to read. That brings me to my next question:
What would you like to see in the book? Because you all can expect this book to be lengthy where you will also see the domestic and intimate side of conrad and belly. I have a lot of ideas for what all i want in this book, but more ideas can't hurt right? So let me know!
Don't forget to send Kudos and Comments! Also subscribe for notifications for when i update!
Chapter 4: iv.
Notes:
hiii everybody! the more comments i read, the most excited i get about this lil project :)) i have so many ideas for this fic and i'm so excited to deliver it!
thank you so much for the replies, and like i said in the last chapter, if you have any ideas for what you may wanna see, comment please!! (no promises that everyone's suggestion will be taken)
also— episode was 6 was absolutely crazy like WHAT??? at this point i just want jeremiah to chose his fuckass cake so that we can have a bonrad ending asap<3
anyway! enjoy this chapter :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
iv.
Conrad pulls into the parking lot in front of my building, and I already feel the familiar hollowness returning. We’d spent hours together—talking, laughing, and then falling into a comfortable silence with music playing in the car, occasionally catching each other’s eye and looking away when one of us was caught. Yet the second the car slows to a stop, disappointment settles over me like a fog. It’s not the same ache from when I was eighteen—but it still stings.
I glance at him and offer a soft smile. I wonder if he can see the sadness in my eyes. I can see his once-perked-up eyes have come to a slight droop, but he doesn’t call attention to it.
“Thank you so much for today,” I say quietly. “It was one of the best days I’ve had in a long time. I missed this.”
“I missed this too,” he says, then adds with a hopeful pause, “But we won’t for long… right?”
“Of course,” I nod, trying to keep my voice light. “And like you promised, my treat next time.”
“Whatever you say, Belly.” He lets out a small laugh, warm and low, the kind that lingers in the air like the last note of a song. “So which one’s yours?” he asks, tilting his head to look up at the building through the windshield.
I lean in slightly, and our shoulders brush—barely, but it’s enough. I hear his breath catch for just a second. I try not to react.
“That one,” I say, pointing at the window on the fourth floor. “Right there.”
For a moment, Conrad doesn’t say anything. When I glance over, I realize he’s no longer looking at the building—he’s looking at me.
The second our eyes meet, he shifts his gaze back to the window like he wasn’t caught.
“Cool,” he says, voice a little too casual.
The air between us shifts into something… awkward. Not bad awkward. Just too much to say and not enough courage awkward.
I reach over and place my hand lightly on his. “Okay… I should go. See you later?”
He nods, smiling, and there’s something in that smile that makes me want to stay. I want to invite him up, to my apartment. Not for any motive or anything, but just to be near him for longer. I remember how hollow I used to feel whenever our date nights would end back when we were teenagers—how much I wanted him to just come home with me, just to be with him.
I step out of the car, mumble a soft “bye,” and head toward the building, resisting the urge to turn around too soon.
Once inside my apartment, I close the door and lean back against it, letting out a long, quiet sigh—the kind that seems to spill from every corner of my chest. All the nerves I’d carried before the dinner, the second-guessing and restless fidgeting, have dissolved into something softer. Now it’s just warmth, pooling low in my stomach, fluttering in my ribs like it’s trying to find a way out. It’s the kind of feeling that fills you up so much, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I slip off my shoes and cross the room, flicking my lamp on. The amber light blooms across the walls, turning the once-dark living room into something cozy and safe. I’m still wrapped in that giddy haze when I pass the window—and that’s when I see him.
Conrad’s still there.
He’s outside the car now, leaning casually against the door like he has nowhere else to be. The sight makes the flutter in my stomach go wild. He looks up, catches my gaze, and lifts a hand in a wave.
I blink, startled, before slowly raising my own hand, the corners of my mouth tugging upward without permission. For a moment, we just stand there—him below, me above—caught in some quiet, wordless exchange.
He waits a beat longer, like he’s making sure, really sure, I’m safe. Then he gets in, starts the car, and drives away.
I keep waving even after the taillights disappear, my heart folding in on itself, soft and stunned. He didn’t have to—but he did.
And somehow, that alone is enough to make me feel everything all over again.
I smile. A ridiculous smile that stretches from ear to ear. I walk straight from the window to the bathroom and turn on the shower. I strip quickly, stepping under the cold stream without a second thought.
The water is freezing, but I don't mind. It grounds me, forces me to focus on something other than the way my heart has been racing since dinner. The party, the confession about the letters, the dinner, the quiet things he did without making a show of it—it’s all flooding me at once.
It’s overwhelming, but not in a bad way. It’s been so long since I felt this… fluttery. Giddy. Like a teenage girl noticing the bare minimum and still finding it special. Only this time, it didn’t feel like the bare minimum. It felt intentional.
I remember the way he looked at me, how careful he was about everything. I remember how he’s always been this way—with me. At five. At eleven. At sixteen. And now at twenty-three, it still does something to me.
No matter how much time has passed, some feelings don’t just go away.
Now, I’m in bed, the weight of the day settling over me, a blink away from slipping into sleep when my phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Conrad
Just reached home, I had fun today<3
I read it once, twice, and feel that quiet warmth bloom in my chest again. Then I set the phone down, turn over, and allow myself to drift off.
The next morning, Belly woke up early. Not on purpose—just one of those half-sleeps where your body is still but your brain won’t stop talking.
She lay on her side, the sunlight starting to creep through the sheer curtains she hadn’t bothered to replace yet. She’d been meaning to get blackout ones, the kind that feel like night even at noon. But that required measuring and browsing and spending money. She had been living in this apartment for a while now, but still couldn't justify spending too much money on furniture. Just enough furniture to not look like she was squatting. Just enough groceries to not rely on ramen. Just enough emotional energy to fake normalcy.
Her mind kept looping back to Conrad.
She’s pretty sure she dreamed about him, though she can’t remember it clearly. Lately, it’s been hard to tell the difference between dreams and reality—especially after seeing him again last night.
Her mind drifts to the little things he did yesterday—taking her to dinner, opening the car door for her, waiting until he was sure she made it home safely. It all felt… older. More deliberate. When they were teenagers, he’d do sweet things too, but there had always been this nervousness, a hesitation she could sense. Now, he seemed more certain of himself—like he was doing it because he wanted to, not because he felt he should.
She could still feel the heat that rushed through her when his hand brushed her back last night. It was like a memory that had never fully faded—alive again in an instant. And now, she found herself wanting it again. Wanting him to touch her. Craving it in a way she hadn’t let herself before.
No. No, no, no. She shook the thought away and sat up. She had too much to do today. She’s not a teenager anymore, which means she can no longer spend all the fantasizing about Conrad and their dinner. Yes, it was absolutely perfect, but her world can’t stop for a man, not anymore.
She got out of bed and started tidying the place. Even though she has been living here for a few months now, she never truly felt at home. It has started to get better though. There were signs of her here now—a photo strip of her and Taylor, some candid Polaroids of her parents smiling at some cookout, one of Susannah in her big sun hat, a goofy shot of her and Steven as kids covered in ice cream, and tucked into the edge of a mirror, a sun-faded picture of her, Steven, Jeremiah, and Conrad—the four of them lined up on the beach with sand in their hair and matching grins. Her favorite mug said Cousins Beach in faded teal letters.
By the time she was brushing her hair into a loose ponytail, there was a knock at the door.
She opened it to see Steven, arms full—two coffees and a brown paper bag. He peered around her dramatically. “So you do live here.”
“I bring gifts,” he added, breezing past her.
“Are you a delivery guy now?” she asked, raising a brow.
“Please. If I delivered food, I’d eat it before it ever got to the customer.”
“Valid.”
He dropped the bag on her kitchen counter and surveyed the place like it was the first time he was seeing it again. “Looks like a college student lives here.”
“I mean, I am a grad student,” she reminded him, snagging the iced coffee he handed over. “But, soon I will also be a fully functioning working adult.”
“Oh right, the whole sports psychologist gig. When is that starting? Will you be psychologically supporting the athletes or just fetching them protein bars?”
She rolled her eyes. “Mostly tracking sleep cycles and fighting with the printer I guess.”
“Ah. Living the dream.”
He took a sip of his drink and then gestured to the space. “Seriously though, it’s cute. But like… you could use a plant. Or a throw pillow. Curtains that don’t scream ‘temporary housing.’”
“Shut up,” she laughed, half-playful, half-defensive. “I like it. It’s mine.”
And it was. For better or worse, this was her space. Her life. And she was still figuring it out.
Steven ends up staying for a couple of hours. They talk—about their mom, about Taylor, about his job in the Boston (which he refers to as “corporate jail” at least twice). He complains about his commute, makes fun of her sad-looking corner lamp, and manages to eat most of the leftover takeout in her fridge. He insists he’s helping her clean, but in reality, he just follows her around with a dish towel in hand, mostly talking while she does the actual work.
By the time he leaves, the apartment is messier than it was before, but her chest feels lighter.
Until the door closes behind him.
The quiet settles in like fog. Familiar and hard to shake.
She picks up her phone before she even realizes she’s doing it. Still no message. Almost evening now, and not a single text from him. Which is weird. Since the part, they’d been texting like it was a job—like they’d been making up for all the years they barely spoke. It always started light. Something dumb. Something funny. She hasn’t heard from him since she replied to his text earlier today—she’d sent it quickly while Steven was still at her place, but nothing came after.
But today: silence.
She stares at their conversation thread for a second. Then types:
Belly
tired of me after dinner already? wow so much for starting over.
She hits send without overthinking it.
He replies just after five.
Conrad
yeah it’s been crazy today. i have been running errands all
day for the residency. filling out forms and what not.
She reads it twice.
It makes sense. It’s normal. But for some reason, it still makes her stomach dip a little. Not because he did anything wrong—just because… she liked hearing from him. Liked how easy it had become. And now, suddenly, it felt like she had to share him with something bigger. Something that wasn’t her.
She stares at the screen for a second longer, then locks it.
But she doesn’t stay still for long.
A few minutes pass. Maybe ten. Then she grabs her phone again and calls him. No warning. No “are you free?” Just a call. The kind that feels impulsive but isn’t—not really.
The line rings. Once. Twice.
She tells herself it’s okay if he doesn’t pick up. He might be tired. He might be busy.
But then—
“Hey,” he says, voice low like he’s trying not to speak too loud.
Belly swallows. “Hey.”
And suddenly, the ache quiets.
“I hope it’s okay that I called? Wait—oh my god, you probably just got home, right? You’re probably tired. I should've asked before calling. I don’t know what I was—”
As she rambles, she hears the faint sound of a door unlocking, then closing. She figures it’s probably his apartment.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just let her go on.
And then, as her sentence starts to trail off, he laughs softly—this time at a normal volume.
“Hey. What’s so funny?” she asks, pretending to be offended.
“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just crazy how one person can talk so much in one go without stopping to breathe.”
“You know what, you’re right,” she said. “It’s honestly so unfortunate you weren’t there earlier in my life to give me this information. By now I would’ve been—I don’t know—a really famous rapper or something.”
“I do apologize for holding back,” Conrad replied, voice mock-serious. “Otherwise you’d probably be living in a penthouse right now.”
“Well, now I don’t think I can forgive you.”
“Oh yeah?” His voice dropped just a little, teasing but softer. “What can I do to make it up to you? I’ll do anything.”
The way he said it made her pulse stutter, just a bit. But she masked it with a shrug he couldn’t see.
“How about…” she paused dramatically, “you make me another round of those dirtbombs again?”
There was a beat of silence, then a laugh from his end—low, warm, and familiar.
“You could’ve asked for anything in the world,” he said, “and you go for muffins that are literally drenched in sugar.”
“Take it or leave it, Connie.”
He groaned, but she could hear the smile in it.
They stayed on the phone for the next two hours.
Conrad told her about his day— all the paper work he had to fill out, getting books and reading material for his residency, getting groceries for his practically empty fridge.
She told him about her day too—how she’d tried to rope Steven into cleaning the apartment and somehow ended up with more laundry on the floor than before. Conrad laughed, and she could hear the smile stretch across his words like a grin she remembered by heart.
By the time they finally hung up, the ache in her chest had dulled into something warmer. Calmer.
She slept better than she had in weeks—head full of stories, cheeks sore from smiling.
The next morning, she woke up to a knock on the door.
A delivery box sat at her feet, still warm to the touch. Inside were what looked suspiciously like freshly made dirtbombs muffins—some a little lopsided, clearly homemade, but smelling exactly the way they did the time he made them for her.
Tucked beneath the box was a card.
In his neat, unmistakable handwriting, it read:
“Can’t lie.. I’m a little surprised that you still remembered these. I hope they are as good as they were before. Don’t eat them in one go. Can’t lose you so soon to a sugar overdose. —Conrad x”
Notes:
helloo! i hope you guys enjoyed this chapter :)
also, i looked further into the timing thing and i have sadly realised that this is one of the only times i will be able to post! i hope this does not ruin my engagement😭
anyway! leave kudos, comments and subscribe<3
Chapter 5: v.
Notes:
hii! i think i have finally decided on an update schedule :) i will be updating every 3 days from now on, if it takes longer at times, show some grace because i am human after all! plus i am still getting used to writing and actually posting it aha!
there will be more of conrad acting like an absolute gentleman (AND HUSBAND MATERIAL!!) in this chapter so have fun with that! i sure did LMAO
see you in the end notes<3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
v.
I look at the plate of dirt bombs on my coffee table, the scent of cinnamon and sugar floating through the room like a hug. It takes me back to that afternoon at Cousins—five years ago, the day I’d spent crying over a wedding that didn’t even feel like mine.
I’d woken up puffy-eyed and drained, but Conrad somehow managed to lift my mood—first when I heard from Jere that he’d agreed to be his best man, and then when I spotted the tray of dirt bombs waiting on the table. For a second, it felt like Susannah was there again. The kitchen had always smelled like something sweet when she was around—lemon bars, blueberry muffins, cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven. She believed in the quiet kind of comfort: warm food, soft light, the hum of people you love nearby. It’s probably where I got my sweet tooth.
This was his way of comforting me—quiet, thoughtful, sweet. Just like her.
I finally pick up one of the dirt bombs—once warm, now room temperature—and take a bite. The taste is even more nostalgic than the scent. Warm, comforting, like a hug.
Like a hug from him.
I reach for my phone and snap a quick photo of the tray, one muffin missing a huge bite. Then I send it to him.
Belly
*attachment*
you do know I was joking about you
making them for me right?
He replies almost instantly. Like he’d been waiting for a text from me.
Conrad
well then, you got yourself a little sweet
treat off your joke then ;)
also I notice you still shove your face
into your food like time’s running out
Belly
hey :( you should take it as a
compliment, not be mean to me😐
Conrad
i do apologise<3
so, did you like them?
Belly
i do!! in fact i love them
don’t be surprised if you started
getting requests for these every weekend
Conrad
as much as i would love to bake these for you
every weekend, as a med student it is my duty
to remind you that, that would most probably kill you.
and like i said, can’t have you dying over a
sugar overdose now can i?
Belly
well then i better cherish this batch
I was about to type out another text when my phone lit up with a call. Conrad’s name flashed across the screen, along with a photo I hadn’t seen in a while—him at eighteen, wearing a chunky sweater and a scarf. I’d taken it on one of our dates because he looked so cuddly that day, I couldn’t stop myself. I guess I never changed it, huh.
I snap out of my thoughts and press answer.
“Hello?” I say.
“Hi,” he breathes out.
“Hi.” I smile, sinking deeper into the corner of my couch. “So… what are you up to?” I ask the first thing that comes to mind.
“Oh, you know. Just thinking about how impressive that bite was. Honestly, Belly—at this point, we should consider entering you into some kind of competitive eating contest.”
He’s teasing. I love when he teases me. There’s an ease to it, a warmth that makes something deep in me unwind. I like this version of Conrad—the playful, sarcastic one who doesn’t overthink before he says something, who just lets it spill out. It feels like he’s letting me see a side of him he keeps tucked away from most people, and I can’t help but hold onto it.
“Oh my God,” I groan, burying my face in a pillow. “Listen, they’re really good, okay? You know how I get with sweets.” I take another bite, talking with my mouth still kind of full.
“Oh, I know. I’ve witnessed the sugar addiction in full force,” he laughs. “Though I did assume you’d grow out of it by, like, age twelve—but here we are, eleven years later.”
“Yeah, yeah. Make fun all you want. You’re the one who got up at the crack of dawn, baked me these dirt bombs, wrote a note, packed them all pretty, and got them delivered.”
“Yeah, well… I had to make it up to you.”
“Well, mission accomplished.” I pause. “So, as a thank you, how about I take you to this korean restaurant near my place?”
So much for taking it slow. Meeting twice in just three days doesn’t exactly scream “slow.” It screams something else entirely—something impulsive, maybe even reckless, but also something that feels right. It’s like every time I talk to him, it pulls me in a little deeper, and I don’t really want to resist it. I know what people say, that love is supposed to be patient, that it should unfold gently. But when it comes to Conrad, when it comes to us, it never has. And maybe it never will.
“If it’s a thank you, then how could I possibly say no?” he says, full of sarcasm.
“Okay then! Tonight?”
I know I sound eager. A little too eager, maybe. But I don’t care. The truth is, I want to see him. I want to look across the table and catch him watching me. I want that feeling again—the lightness, the spark, the fireworks. And now, being able to see him without all the chaos, without the long distance and missed chances and timing that never seemed to work… it’s rare. It’s rare and it’s mine, and I want to soak in every bit of it while I can. It feels like a dream. And I’m living in it.
“Tonight,” he confirms.
“Meet me at six? At my place?”
She knows she’s pushing it. The second meeting in three days. The dinner invite. The tone of her voice. This isn’t slow. It’s not careful or cautious or calculated. But maybe that’s okay. Because with her and Conrad, it’s always been like this—fast and messy and intense. It’s never followed rules, never fit into a timeline that made sense to anyone else. They’ve always lived in extremes: all in or not at all. And right now, she wants to be all in.
“You got it. See you tonight.”
“See you.” I smile as I end the call.
Conrad is currently pacing around his apartment, trying to gather his essentials: keys, wallet, phone. The pacing is pointless—he’s still fifteen minutes early—but he’d rather be early than even a second late. It’s one of those things his mom drilled into him. Part of her unofficial guide to being a gentleman.
When Belly asked him to get dinner today, he was caught off guard. He hadn’t expected her to ask him to dinner, or even say yes when he’d suggested they take things slow. Truthfully, he didn’t think she’d even want to entertain the idea. But she surprised him—again.
He’s not stupid. He sees how she looks at him. It’s the same way she used to, back when they were just teenagers fumbling through first love. And still, he’d half-convinced himself that asking to start over would make him sound insane. That she’d laugh in his face. But here they are now.
Every time he lets himself think about everything that went wrong between them, it stings. Not with the same raw intensity as when he was eighteen—or even twenty—but enough to remind him that he couldn’t survive another fallout. Not when his feelings for her haven’t faded. If anything, they’ve deepened, grown with him. Matured.
He wants to take it slow—really slow. To savor her. To relearn her, rediscover her, piece by piece. He wants time. Time to spend with her, time to listen, time to laugh. To know this newer version of Belly—the independent, city-living version of her. The one building a life of her own. It does something to him, seeing her that way. Standing on her own, separate from their past, but still choosing to text him, call him, see him. It’s… exciting.
He’s now only ten minutes from her apartment in Greenwich Village and, somehow, still early—thanks to a miracle lack of traffic. As he pulls up to a red light, something catches his eye. A tiny corner flower shop, all weathered brick and overflowing displays. The bouquets in the window are a mix of soft and bold—some loud with color, others gentle and muted.
The light turns green. He checks his watch. It’s 5:40. He still has time. And even if he ends up five minutes late… it wouldn’t be the end of the world, right?
Before he can talk himself out of it, a sharp honk from behind snaps him out of his thoughts. Without thinking too hard, he takes a left turn and pulls up in front of the flower shop.
The moment he steps inside, he’s hit with the sweet, earthy scent of fresh blooms. It reminds him of his mom— she always had fresh flowers in the house. After she passed, the house lost its color. The scent, the brightness… all of it vanished.
“Whaddaya lookin’ for?” a sharp voice cuts through the floral calm.
He turns and finds a woman, probably in her sixties, standing behind the counter. She’s got a thick New York accent and a stare sharp enough to slice glass. Her presence completely clashes with the dreamy, delicate vibe of the shop.
“Flowers for your girlfriend? Wife?” she eyes him up and down. “Mistress?” she adds with a smirk.
“Uh—no, just a friend.” He blurts it out too quickly, lips pressing together.
Belly isn’t just a friend. But she’s not his girlfriend either. And he sure as hell isn’t explaining their entire messy history to this woman.
“A’right… if you say so.” She snorts. “So, what’re ya thinkin’? Color, type, size, somethin’ that smells nice?”
She walks over to a table with pre-made bouquets.
“Um… maybe something yellow? Not too flashy,” he says, his words more like a question than a decision. He doesn’t want to risk irritating her.
She picks up a bouquet of white daisies—dozens of them—wrapped in simple brown paper and tied with a soft beige linen ribbon. It’s a thick, almost unruly bunch. They’re clean and bright, delicate but not fragile.
They remind him of Belly.
“Hey, kid—I ain’t got all day. That’ll be twenty-two,” she snaps.
“Hm? Yeah! Sorry, these are perfect. I’ll take them.”
He pulls out his card, but pauses when he notices the way her eyes narrow.
“Cash only,” she mutters, already turning back toward the register.
He digs into his wallet, finding a crumpled twenty and some spare change, and hands it over.
As he holds the bouquet, he takes a moment to really look at it up close. This time, all he smells is the daisies—unmixed, crisp and clean.
“They got a meanin’, ya know,” the woman says, now counting a fat wad of cash she’s pulled from under the counter.
“They do?” he asks softly, still staring at the flowers in his hands.
“Yeah, all flowers do. I remember every single one.”
“Right… what about these?”
He lifts the bouquet slightly, though she obviously knows what he’s talking about.
“Purity. Innocence. And new beginnings.”
His eyes flick up at that. New beginnings. The words settle in his chest, blooming warm and fast. It almost feels like fate—that he chose these without knowing.
“Ahhh, young love,” eyeing the soft grin forming on his face. “Told me she’s just a friend, huh? You sure ‘bout that?” she adds with a raised brow.
He tries to suppress the smile, but it’s useless now.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” she adds, her expression flipping cold. “I sure did… right before my husband got in bed with the babysittah.”
Conrad practically bolts, muttering an awkward “thank you” as he hurries out the door.
I’m practically sprinting around my apartment, and the fact that it’s a one bed room apartment isn’t helping in the slightest. Every corner of this place is a hazard. There’s nowhere to run that doesn’t involve dodging a shoe, a pile of clothes, or a stray charger cable.
I shove my feet into a pair of white sandals and dart into the bathroom to do something— anything —to my bare lips. As I lean over the sink, I let out an annoyed sigh at the sight in front of me: a cluster of grimy cotton pads, mascara smudges, and tear stains decorating the counter like a crime scene. I’m still recovering from the mini disaster that occurred ten minutes ago when I, in a rush of panic and lack of coordination, jabbed myself in the eye with my mascara wand. It was dramatic. There were tears. It stung like hell. My eye still twitches slightly when I blink too fast.
Choosing to pretend none of it happened, I focus on applying some lip color and blot quickly. That’s when I hear the faint trill of my phone ringing. My head whips toward the sound, which is buried somewhere beneath the avalanche of clothes on my bed. Groaning, I dive into the heap, tossing shirts and socks like a madwoman until I find it—still ringing. Conrad’s contact photo flashes across the screen. I pick up before it can go to voicemail.
“Hello?”
“Hey… are you okay? You sound kind of out of breath,” Conrad says, concern wrapping around his voice like a warm blanket.
“No, no! I’m good—just couldn’t find my phone, that’s all,” I say, shooting a deadly glare at the mountain of clothes now somehow messier than it was before.
“Alright,” he chuckles lightly. “I’m out front. You want me to wait down here?”
“No! Come up, I’ll buzz you in. Fourth floor, Apartment 16,” I say, already heading back to the bathroom, dabbing blush onto the apples of my cheeks with a fluffy brush that may or may not have seen better days.
“Alright, I’ll be up in a minute,” he says, and the call ends.
I make a mad dash to the buzzer, letting him in. I take a quick look around the living room, it’s clean enough.
I fling open the door when I hear a knock barely a minute later—and there he is.
Conrad.
Holding flowers.
Flowers.
“You look like you just ran a marathon,” he says with a soft laugh, his gaze trailing from the flushed top of my head to the tips of my toes.
“Well! Hello to you too,” I reply, unable to stop my own eyes from drinking him in. He’s wearing a white linen shirt that toes the line of being see-through—just barely. It clings to his lean frame, the sunlight from the hallway catching on the folds, highlighting the subtle shape of muscle underneath.
My eyes fall back on the bouquet. It’s impossible to ignore. Dozens of white daisies, wrapped in slightly wrinkled brown paper, held like an afterthought in his hands.
He notices me staring. “Oh—uh, these are for you. I saw this little corner shop and picked them up. It was nice. The shop, I mean. The lady working there wasn’t, though,” he rambles, already halfway into a tangent. I just watch him, amused, my smile giving me away.
“Here!” he says suddenly, pushing the bouquet toward me.
I take it gently. Our fingers brush for the briefest second. I don’t look up.
“Thank you, Conrad. They’re beautiful. I love them,” I say, lifting them to my face. They smell clean and sweet—like summer after rain.
“Good. Good, I’m glad.” He smiles and shifts his weight from one foot to the other like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
“So—”
“So—”
We both speak at once and laugh, the awkwardness softening a little.
“Hey, come in. Give me just one minute to grab my purse and then we can head out?” I step aside and gesture him in.
“Yeah, okay.” He steps inside slowly, like he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to. I don’t think much of it and tell him to make himself at home.
In the bedroom, I stuff my essentials into a crossbody bag that pairs with my outfit and spritz myself with some floral perfume on the way out. It suits the mood today. Soft, light, unassuming.
When I walk back out, I find him standing in the corner of the room, stiff as a statue, his hands awkwardly clasped behind his back.
“Con…” I chuckle. “I told you to make yourself at home, not stand in the corner like a dog being punished.”
He looks sheepish. “I didn’t know if I was allowed to sit.”
“Okay, well, you’re definitely allowed to sit. But for now, come help me with these.” I motion toward the bouquet, still wrapped.
He walks over and leans slightly over me to inspect my progress. My kitchen barely qualifies as a kitchen—it’s more of a glorified nook—but today, the smallness of it feels oddly intimate.
“Here, let me. I used to help my mom with this all the time back in middle school,” he says, gently taking the bouquet from my hands. He unwraps the ribbon, peels away the brown paper, and arranges the stems into a vase I’ve filled with water. “There we go,” he says, stepping back, pleased.
We’re only inches apart now, and I can feel his eyes lingering on my face.
“Are you… wearing makeup?” he blurts, like the thought slipped out before he could stop it.
I freeze for a beat, unsure whether to laugh or roll my eyes. “Yeah, some. Why?”
He shakes his head, almost like he’s shaking himself. “I don’t know. I just—I’ve only ever seen you wearing it a couple of times. It—it looks nice.” His voice is quiet, almost tentative.
There’s a flicker in his gaze—his eyes dip to my lips for a second before darting away—and my chest tightens.
“Well, I started wearing it more. You do remember I’m not sixteen anymore, right?” I tease, swinging my bag over my shoulder and collecting my keys from the hook next to the door.
Something shifts in his expression, subtle but unmistakable. Like my words landed heavier than I meant them to.
“Yeah,” he says finally, softer this time. “I know.”
Something in the way he says it makes me pause, but I don’t press. Instead, I just push the thought aside and head for the door, pretending not to notice.
I open the door, turning back with a small smile. “Shall we?”
He nods. “We shall.”
Notes:
hii my loves, i hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it (specially the flower shop part). Do you guys enjoy the occasional comic relief? because that is something that i often look for in books :)
also—i normally wouldn’t ramble like this here, but i’ve been overthinking the fuck out of the ending for this chapter. the makeup bit with conrad was my way of hinting at something bigger: him realizing just how much belly has changed. this is something i wanna stress throughout the fic—she’s not the same 16 year old stuck in the past. she’s grown, she’s bloomed (like susannah would say). she’s still belly, but now she’s independent, not under the shadow of other people and is more comfortable with herself.
and that’s the version i want conrad to fall in love with again. slowly, but harder than ever.
just wanted to say that so no one’s confused 😭
anyway!! give kudos, leave me unhinged comments (i love to yap so don’t hold back), bookmark, and subscribe for updates <3
Chapter 6: vi.
Notes:
hello! i am feeding you guys with a longer chapter today and guess what :) The chapters will be longer from now on, basically nothing below 5K words. Now that i am getting used to writing, it's getting easier to get into the flow of it and writing more than i usually would.
Also—episode 7 was actually gut wrenching😭 like i felt almost numb for a few hours after i watched it. What did you guys think about it? i have some very strong opinions about it, specially the beach scene and would love to discuss in the comments, i love hearing other people's opinions!
I have already written chapter 7 and 8 and i am so excited for you guys to read it, like i'm practically shaking.
Anyway! I hope you guys have been enjoying the previous chapters and this chapter :) Oh! and reminder: i have a pinterest board pinned at the starting of each chapter so don't forget to check that out if you like visuals!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
vi.
The evening air is warm, but not heavy. A soft breeze moves through the street, lifting loose flyers and playing at the edges of hanging shop signs. Streetlights flicker on one by one, casting a gentle amber glow that bounces off shuttered storefronts and parked scooters.
It’s a neighborhood that feels lived-in — not flashy, not new, but loved. Potted plants spill out from tiny balconies above bakeries and corner shops. The occasional bark of a dog or the whirr of a passing cycle cuts through the steady hum of the city winding down. A group of kids dart past with ice creams in hand, trailing laughter behind them.
As they near the restaurant, the quiet residential stretch slowly shifts. The scent of grilled meat and sesame oil drifts through the air, pulling them forward. Neon signs glow in soft reds and golds, their Hangul lettering pulsing against the windows of a handful of tightly packed eateries. This part of the block is busier — voices overlapping in excitement, chairs scraping lightly against the tiled floors inside, the clatter of chopsticks and sizzling from an open kitchen spilling out onto the street.
The Korean place is nestled between a dim sum joint and a bubble tea shop, its glass doors slightly fogged, warm light glowing from within. A tiny bell above the door rings each time someone enters, followed by a soft burst of music and laughter.
“You come here often?” Conrad asks.
“I do! I mean, it’s been a while now, but before the break, this used to be the hangout spot for me and my friends from grad school.” She smiles, remembering all the times she’d come here after long, boring lectures—exhausted but always leaving in better spirits.
“Eating here just makes life feel a little brighter. It reminds me of home—and my mom. She didn’t cook often because, well, it usually ended in disaster. But the three of us—her, Steven, and me—would go to a Korean restaurant back home at least once a month. Every single time, it felt like the best meal of my life.”
They step inside and settle into a table tucked away in a cozy corner of the restaurant. It’s quiet, slightly hidden from the rest of the room—not that she minds.
“Well, then I’m definitely excited now,” Conrad says. “I didn’t really know what to expect, so I did a little research on Korean food and found a few dishes I think I’d like.”
“You researched?” She asks, just as the waitress arrives and sets down two menus. Belly flashes her a smile before turning back to him.
“I mean… I didn’t want to look stupid in front of you,” he says, sheepish.
A laugh escapes before she can stop it. She claps a hand over my mouth. “Sorry,” She mumbles between giggles.
“Ha. Ha.” He shoots me a mock glare.
“I’m not laughing at you ,” She says, still smiling. “It’s just… sweet. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, clearly I did,” he says, mock offense laced in his voice. “You have this whole nostalgic connection to Korean food and I just… didn’t want to be the guy who asks what kimchi is.”
She rests her chin on her hand, amused. “Okay, fair enough. So what did you learn, Mr. Research?”
He flips open the menu dramatically. “Bibimbap. Tteokbokki. Samgyeopsal. Japchae. And—wait for it—banchan. Which is, like, a bunch of tiny dishes they give you for free.”
“Wow, look at you,” Belly says, genuinely impressed. “I’m proud.”
“You should be. I watched, like, three YouTube videos for this.”
They both laugh, and the waitress returns, asking if they're ready. They glance at each other for a second before Conrad says, “We’ll need a few more minutes.”
They lingered over the menus for a while, Conrad’s brow furrowed as if the laminated pages held the key to some unsolvable equation. She answers his questions whenever he stumbled—patiently explaining dishes, pointing at photos, her voice slipping into an ease that felt natural with him.
She found herself watching the way his eyes skimmed the words, the concentration etched into his face. He was so focused, so intent, that you’d think he was about to perform a surgery rather than choose dinner. It was ridiculous and endearing all at once. Belly smiles to herself, and when he finally noticed her staring, she admitted it outright, catching just the faintest hint of a shy smile tugging at his lips. It was small, almost fleeting, but enough to stir something deep inside her.
Eventually, they agreed on samgyeopsal—Korean barbeque. Conrad said it looked interesting, and she had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing at his attempt to pronounce it. Still, the effort mattered more than the accuracy. It was the kind of thing about him that got under her skin—the quiet way he tried, even when no one was asking him to.
The minutes stretched easily between them as they continued talking—not about work or school, not about anything looming overhead, but about the menu, the bustle of the restaurant, the sizzling sounds coming from nearby tables. Belly teased him about how he squinted at the Korean lettering like it was hieroglyphics; he pointed out the neon sign above the counter and joked that it probably translated to “good luck, you’ll need it.” It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t heavy. Just the kind of idle conversation that came when two people felt comfortable in each other’s presence.
When the waitress arrived at their table, her apron dotted with old grease stains and a pen tucked behind her ear, she greeted them with a cheerful smile. “Hi! What can I get you today?”
Belly glanced at Conrad, letting him do the honors. He straightened a little, took a quick breath, and dove headfirst into the order. He almost completely butchered the pronunciation, but the waitress didn’t so much as blink. Belly pressed her lips together to hold back her laugh, her shoulders trembling slightly with the effort. He caught the look on her face anyway, and she could see the faint rise of color at the tops of his cheeks.
The waitress scribbled the last note on her pad and was just about to leave when Belly called her back. Conrad turned to her, puzzled, as she leaned forward with a grin tugging at her mouth.
“Can we also get a bottle of soju?” she asked, eyes flicking to Conrad with a mischievous glint.
The waitress nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.
Conrad leaned back against the booth, eyebrows raised, an amused smile playing on his lips. “Are you trying to get me drunk or something?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, still smiling, pretending to study her menu again though her eyes never left him.
The sizzling sound of samgyeopsal fills the little booth, and everything smells incredible. There’s steam rising from the grill between us, and the smoky air clings to my hair, my clothes, everything. Conrad’s flipping strips of pork belly like he’s done this a hundred times before, even though I know it was probably a part of his research.
He pours another round of strawberry soju into our tiny glasses, his eyes glinting in the dim light.
“To questionable pronunciation and even more questionable cooking skills,” I say, holding up my glass.
He clinks his glass against mine with a crooked grin. “Cheers to that.”
We both down the shot, and I feel it instantly—warmth blooming in my chest and cheeks, the kind that makes everything a little louder, a little funnier. I nearly choke laughing as Conrad tries to wrap his lettuce wrong-side-out.
“That’s literally not how you’re supposed to—oh my god, give it to me,” I say, reaching across the table, half laughing, half exasperated.
“You’re just jealous of my technique.”
“You’re embarrassing us.”
“There’s no one here who even cares,” he says, chewing triumphantly.
I’m about to fire back when he pauses, tilts his head slightly, and leans in—not all the way, just enough to make me freeze.
“There’s—” he murmurs, and then he reaches out.
His thumb brushes my cheek, just under my eye, slow and careful like he’s done this before. I blink.
“There was some sauce,” he says quietly.
My skin burns where he touched me, like the heat from the grill suddenly jumped to my face.
“Thanks,” I say, breath catching on a soft laugh that bubbles out of me before I can stop it—light, a little slurred, and entirely unbothered.
Conrad leans back, one brow raised, the corner of his mouth twitching. “How are you already getting tipsy?”
“I’m having a lot of fun. A lot more than I have in a while,” I say, voice slightly breathless as I grab the soju bottle. I pour myself another shot, then reach for Conrad’s glass.
Before I can pour, his hand closes gently over the rim of the cup. “I’m good,” he says with a soft laugh. “I have to drive back.”
“Nooo, come on!” I groan, dramatically slumping against the table. “I already poured mine. One last shot, I promise!”
Despite his protest, I tip the bottle and fill his glass, pushing it toward him with exaggerated determination.
“Belly,” he says, dragging out my name in a mock-scolding tone. And that’s when I notice it—the slight sway in his posture, the relaxed drawl in his voice. He’s definitely more gone than I thought.
I smirk. “Connie,” I mimic, matching his tone, my voice a teasing lilt.
He groans but lifts his glass in surrender. “Alright, alright.”
I squeal and nearly knock over the grill as our glasses clink together.
The last shot burns its way down, sweet and sharp. We laugh, loud and unfiltered, and keep picking at what little food is left—burnt edges of pork belly, stray mushrooms, a rogue piece of kimchi sizzling on the edge of the grill. Our conversation drifts, unanchored and silly, meandering through nonsense and half-finished stories.
By the time we finally stop, Conrad waves for the bill. The waitress comes over with a knowing smile, like she’d been quietly entertained by our clumsy grilling and giggly toasts.
“Will this be together or separate?” she asks.
“Together!” I blurt out before Conrad even opens his mouth, already sliding my card into her hand.
She gives me a little bow and disappears with it.
Conrad laughs, shaking his head. “You were prepared this time.”
“Yeah well,” I say smugly, resting back against the booth, “you promised you’d let me get it.”
He leans down to grab his things, slipping his wallet and phone into his pockets with an easy motion.
“That just means I’ll get it next time,” he says, glancing at me with a spark in his eyes.
“So… when will next time be?” I prop my elbow on the sticky table, chin in hand, watching him with a hazy, almost tipsy smile.
He mirrors my posture, resting his cheek against his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his gaze finding mine with an ease that makes my heart thump a little too hard.
“As soon as possible,” he says, low and deliberate, and then that smile appears—the crooked, boyish one that used to undo me without even trying. “I might just whisk you away… tomorrow?”
The restaurant hums around us—clinking chopsticks, sizzling woks, laughter from a table over—but it all feels distant, like we’re sitting in a bubble only we can hear. The warmth spreads across my face, down my chest, curling in my stomach.
“Tomorrow?” I echo. “My god, Fisher. Seems like you just can’t get enough of me, can you?” My teasing comes out softer than I intended, almost like a dare.
His brows lift in surprise, but his grin is quick. “I’m sorry, but weren’t you the one who asked me out today, Isabel?”
My heart gives that small, traitorous leap at the sound of my full name. There’s something about him saying it—different from when it comes from colleagues or professors. With him, it feels… intimate.
“Well,” I lean back slightly, pretending to think, “I did have to pay you back for the muffins.” My grin only widens when he rolls his eyes, feigning offense.
“Oh, quit it! I know you couldn’t resist my charm.”
That earns him a bright, high-pitched laugh from me, the kind that tips my head back.
“Yeah, well,” I shrug lightly, my smile softening, “you’re still as charming as ever.”
The alcohol must be working its way through my bloodstream, loosening my tongue. Normally, I wouldn’t say something like that so soon—not with him. I’m not sure I mind.
And then Conrad stops laughing. He does that thing—his expression shifting in a heartbeat, the playful ease replaced by something steady, almost intent. The air between us feels charged.
“And you’re still as beautiful as ever.”
The words land heavy, sweet, and startling. My pulse kicks up so fast it almost hurts. If the restaurant went silent, I’m sure he could hear the pounding in my chest. My mouth parts automatically, searching for a reply, but nothing comes out.
We just… look at each other. A beat. Another. His gaze is steady, unwavering, like he’s memorizing me.
It’s only when the waitress reappears, sliding my card across the table with a polite, “Here you go,” that the spell breaks. I blink, mutter a quick thank you, and fumble clumsily with the receipt, my fingers feeling strangely uncooperative.
The night air is cool when we step outside, that kind of soft summer breeze that feels like it’s been waiting all day for the heat to die down. The restaurant door swings shut behind us, muffling the laughter and the clink of glasses, and suddenly the city feels quieter—like it’s giving us space. The buzz from dinner is still there, warm and hazy in my chest, but I can feel it starting to slip into something softer. I feel a little giddy, like the night could still hold something unexpected.
For a moment, we just stand there. He slips his hands into his pockets, looking up and down the street as if he’s deciding which way to go, even though I know we’re heading toward my place. The streetlights throw his profile into a kind of gold-and-shadow contrast, and I catch myself staring before I force my gaze forward.
“You okay to walk?” he asks. His voice is low, not from shyness, but in that way people speak when the night feels too peaceful to disrupt.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s not far. Plus… I kinda like walking at night.”
He smiles—just a small twitch at the corner of his mouth—but it’s enough to make something warm settle in my chest. We start moving, falling into step without thinking about it.
The sidewalks are damp from a half-hearted drizzle earlier, glinting under the lamps. Every so often, a car rushes past, breaking the stillness, but otherwise, it’s quiet. The city is in that in-between space where the day crowd is gone and the night crowd hasn’t fully taken over.
We walk for a few minutes in silence. It’s not awkward—it’s the kind of silence where you’re aware of the other person’s presence in a way that feels steadying. My shoulder brushes his once, and neither of us comments on it.
He’s the one who breaks the quiet.
“So… Paris.” His eyes flick to me briefly before returning to the sidewalk. “You never really told me what it was like.”
“You never asked.”
“I figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”
That’s such a Conrad answer—careful, patient, but also frustrating in its restraint. “It was… lonely at first,” I admit. “Like, really lonely. My French was good enough to have a few normal conversations, but not enough to really connect with anyone. It got better over time. I made a few French friends, and some who were just studying there like me. But in those first weeks…” I shake my head lightly. “It felt like the city was swallowing me whole.”
We walk a few steps before I go on. “With everything after Jere…” my voice dips just slightly, “…I just needed to be alone. To figure my life out. To figure myself out. And Paris gave me the space to do that. I felt free, for the first time in a long fucking time. No one knew me there. No one had any expectations. I could be whoever I wanted, and no one would question it.”
Conrad’s gaze flicks toward me, thoughtful. “I’m glad you had that.”
“In high school,” I continue, “I barely went out. Barely went to any parties. If I did, it was because I tagged along with Taylor. I think I was happiest in Cousins—being with you, Jere, Susannah… that was the happiest part of my life then. But back in Philly, even with Taylor around, I don’t know… I just felt alone. Empty. Like I was watching everyone else live and I was stuck on pause.”
I pause, then add, “And then in college, with Jere… it was like I immediately became a part of his frat friends. I never found my people, other than Anika, I guess. I’d go to parties with him—naturally—but I didn’t feel like I belonged. Because I didn’t.”
His hands are still in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, but I can tell he’s listening closely.
“Paris was different,” I say, and a small smile pulls at my mouth. “I started going out because I wanted to. I met people I actually liked. We’d stay up until four in the morning drinking wine in some tiny apartment, talking about music and books and the dumbest things. And when I danced, it wasn’t to keep up with anyone—it was because I wanted to.” I grin at the memory, “God, Con, I danced so much in Paris. I felt free. I felt free from everything that happened.”
I can feel his eyes on me now.
“That sounds like you,” he says.
I scoff. “No way. When was I ever like that?”
He lets out the faintest laugh. “You might not remember, but when you were younger, you were a little ball of joy. Always dancing, always laughing, probably stuffing your face with candy somewhere. Just… free, like you said you were in Paris.”
There’s a pause—just the sound of our footsteps and the soft rush of wind between buildings.
“I’m glad you found yourself again, Belly,” he says quietly.
Something in the way he says it makes my chest ache, like it’s both a celebration and a loss. I keep my eyes forward, afraid to let him see what’s written all over my face.
“You never told me what California really was like,” I say after a moment. “I mean, I heard snippets, but not the good stuff, you know?”
He glances at me, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Well, you never asked,” he says, mocking my earlier words back to me.
I roll my eyes, but he doesn’t give me long to respond.
“California was… interesting,” he says finally. “I felt lonely like you did, but I guess the loneliness never left for me. I wasn’t alone, not technically. I had some friends, some acquaintances. But it never felt like home, you know?”
Something in his voice softens, but it’s the next part that makes my chest tighten.
“After Mom left… even my actual home didn’t feel like home anymore. The place closest to home now is Cousins. And my lovely Conklins.” His mouth curves into a half-smirk, half-smile that doesn’t quite hide the weight behind it.
I don’t push—he’s still talking.
“I buried myself in studying those first couple of years. And then when I got my first clinic job, I buried myself in work instead. Other than that… I’d surf when the tide was good, grab a beer or two with friends, nothing much else.”
There’s a pause before he adds, “I did have one good friend there. Agnes. I even dated her for a bit, but we both knew we were better off as friends. And we are. She’s probably my closest friend other than Steven.”
I feel my body go stiff at the mention of another girl, but as he keeps talking, the tension eases out of my shoulders. It’s hypocritical, I know, considering the life I’ve lived since him, but I can’t help it.
“Boston never felt like home,” he says, shaking his head. “Not after Dad cheated. And after Mom left, it felt even worse. California never felt like home either. So…” He glances at me, eyes unreadable in the low light. “I hoped maybe I could make a home out of New York.”
The air between us shifts—something unspoken stretching across the space. Without thinking, I reach for his hand. His fingers curl around mine instantly, like he was already waiting.
“You will,” I say quietly. “You’re not as alone as you think, Conrad.”
We keep walking, our hands warm against the cool night air, that knowing look still hanging between us. He glances at me once, then again, like he’s trying to memorize something.
“What?” I ask, a little breathless.
He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Nothing. Just… it’s good to have you here.”
And for the first time in a long time, I’m not sure if he means in New York… or beside him.
The buzz has almost worn off by the time we reach my building, that soft, tipsy warmth giving way to something quieter, more fragile. I lean back against the brick wall beside the entrance, feeling the coolness seep through my dress. Conrad mirrors me, his shoulder brushing the wall just inches from mine.
I tilt my head towards the sky.
“I hate that you can’t see stars properly here,” I murmur. The city sky is a washed-out navy, with only a few faint specks struggling to break through the light pollution. “I love looking at the stars—especially in Cousins. They’re so bright there… so visible.”
He follows my gaze upward, and a quiet laugh slips from both of us when we spot a single, lonely star barely managing to shine.
“But this city has its own charm,” Conrad says after a beat, voice low, like he’s speaking to the night as much as to me. “It’s… different.”
I hum in agreement. It’s vague, but he knows I mean it.
Around us, New York feels like it’s catching its breath. It’s late enough—close to ten—that the streets have thinned out, but not completely. A couple walks past, their laughter fading into the hum of distant traffic. Somewhere down the block, the faint strum of a guitar drifts out from an open window. The summer breeze slips between the buildings, rustling the leaves in the trees above us, making them sway like they’re slow dancing. For once, the city doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on me. It feels lighter, almost conspiratorial, like it knows something we don’t.
I break the quiet first.
“So, final verdict on Korean food?” I ask, tilting my head toward him.
Conrad exhales, lips twitching into the barest hint of a grin. “Oh, easily ten out of ten. Would recommend.” His tone is mock-serious, like he’s delivering a review for some food column.
I snort. “I would not recommend your flipping skills to anyone though.” I send him a cheeky smile, the kind that dares him to defend himself.
He groans immediately, the sound rumbling low in his chest as he tips his head back against the brick wall with a dull thud. “What—what was wrong with my flipping skills?”
“Conrad, you almost sent a strip of meat flying into my face.” My voice lifts, incredulous, but there’s laughter threaded through it. The image replays in my head, that split-second of panic when the tongs slipped just a little too fast.
He pushes himself off the wall just enough to turn toward me, eyes narrowed in mock offense. “Oh, come on! It was the grease.”
“Yeah, well, you almost gave me a third-degree burn,” I shoot back, though the smile tugging at my lips makes it impossible to sound serious.
“Almost!” Conrad exclaims, pointing a finger at me as if that one word is his airtight defense. His eyes shine with that rare, easy mischief, and for a moment he doesn’t look like someone carrying the weight of the world—he just looks like Conrad.
“Oh my god,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I lean harder against the wall, though I can’t stop the laugh that slips out with it.
“I had a lot of fun today, though,” Conrad says, his voice softer now, the humor from a second ago lingering at the edges.
“So did I.” I meet his eyes as I smile, the kind that feels like it’s coming from deeper than just the surface.
There’s a beat of quiet, just the faint guitar down the block and the shuffle of a taxi slowing at the corner. Then he shifts, leaning a little closer, lips curving into that half-smile that always looks like he’s holding back more than he lets on.
“So… about tomorrow.”
“Yes, Conrad?” I ask, exaggerating the seriousness in my tone, though a small laugh betrays me.
“I want to take you somewhere. Tomorrow. Like…” He hesitates for a half-second, then commits. “A date.”
My grin comes fast, impossible to hide, lighting me up before I can even try to tone it down.
“A date?” I tease, raising an eyebrow. “So what was today, then? Or dinner two days ago?”
“Well, it was never officially declared as a date, now was it?” His eyes glint, and I swear he’s enjoying this far too much.
I shake my head, still smiling. “Okay then. I accept. Where are you taking me?”
“Nope. That’s a surprise.” He presses his lips together, fighting a laugh when my eyes widen in protest.
“Oh, come on! I won’t be able to sleep tonight.” I groan, tilting my head back against the wall dramatically, though laughter spills out anyway.
“You better get a good amount of sleep,” he warns lightly, voice warm. “You’re gonna need it. That’s all I’m telling you.”
He pushes off the wall, unfolding to his full height in that unhurried, effortless way of his. The air shifts with him, the space between us stretching and changing as he straightens. “And on that note, I do have to get back now.”
It’s a small shift, but I catch it—the way his shoulders dip, like part of him doesn’t really want to leave. The thought snags somewhere in me, settling with an ache that’s oddly sweet.
“You’ll be okay to drive? I mean…” I hesitate, chewing on my lip for a second. “You didn’t drink as much as me, but still.”
“I’ll be fine, Belly. Don’t worry about me.”
He’s standing in front of me now—not close enough to touch, but close enough that I can see the faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes. The streetlight catches in them, softening his whole face in a way that makes it hard to look anywhere else.
We fall into silence again, that strange, electric kind that makes every second stretch longer, like the city itself has paused just to watch us. His eyes trace over my face—slowly, deliberately—as if he’s trying to memorize me in this exact moment. Then his gaze dips to my mouth, lingering there for the briefest, most breathless heartbeat before flicking back up to meet mine.
I try to exhale, but the breath catches sharp in my throat.
His gaze shifts again, lower still, down to where my hand rests against my side. Without a word, he reaches out. The touch is so careful, so gentle, it nearly undoes me. His fingers curl around mine, warm and steady, grounding me even as my pulse stumbles. His thumb moves in an absent circle over my knuckles, the kind of touch that feels both unconscious and impossibly intentional.
My skin feels too hot, my palms damp, but I don’t pull away. I couldn’t, even if I tried.
My heart is pounding, loud enough that I’m sure he must hear it. He lifts my hand toward his face, unhurried, deliberate, like he’s giving me time to stop him if I wanted to. I don’t. My breath hitches as his eyes meet mine again, and then I feel it—the faint warmth of his breath ghosting over my skin before his lips even touch me.
At first, it’s just the barest press against my knuckle, still and reverent. His gaze never wavers, holding mine like a tether. The air feels heavy, suspended, as though even the night doesn’t dare interrupt. Then he closes his eyes and lingers, the kiss lasting long enough—four seconds, maybe more—that I catalog everything: the faint chapped edges of his lips, the steady warmth, the impossible way the world narrows to this one fragile, infinite point of contact.
When he opens his eyes again, they go straight to mine.
“Thank you for today,” he murmurs against my skin, so soft that if he were an inch farther away, I might not have caught it at all.
My throat feels tight, but I manage, “No problem,” my voice low, uncertain if it even reaches him.
And then he steps back. The absence of his hand feels immediate, too sharp. My fingers slip from his, leaving only the ghost of his touch behind.
“See you tomorrow, Belly.”
I nod, dazed, and manage a quiet “See you” in return before turning toward the door.
By the time I get upstairs, my head is still swimming. I barely remember pressing the elevator button, barely register unlocking my apartment door. My feet take me straight to the window without thinking.
And just like the other night, he’s there.
Standing by his car, looking up at me. This time, there’s no hesitation—he’s grinning, wide and boyish, like the Conrad I knew when I was sixteen.
He lifts a hand in a wave before climbing into his car and driving away, leaving me standing there with my heart in my throat.
Notes:
So who was giggling and kicking their feet? because i sure was when i wrote it😭
Do share your opinions about episode 7 of the show because i'd love to have discussions about this!
Do give kudos, bookmark, subscribe and comment! It would help me a lot! Thank you and see you soon!
Chapter 7: vii.
Notes:
hii! first of all, i'd like to apologize that i am posting after a week even though i said that i'd update in 3 days😭 my dog was extremely unwell, hence i was not in the right headspace to write or even update if im being honest. But all is good now and now im back with a pretty good fucking chapter hehe.
second of all. EPISODE. EIGHT. HELLO??? guys the scream i screamed was insane. i am so interested to know what they will be doing with the ending because the airport scene wasn't in the book!!
anyway, have fun reading this chapter. i enjoyed writing it so much ahhh
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
vii.
I wake up to sunlight slanting through the sheer curtains, soft and warm on my face, and groan. My phone is buzzing insistently on the nightstand. I stretch and squint at the screen, brushing a strand of hair from my eyes. It’s already 11 a.m.—definitely later than I usually let myself sleep.
The first text I see makes my stomach do a little flutter:
Conrad
Good morning :) will pick you up at 4pm, try not to be late <3”
I bite my lip, smiling even before I reply. Four hours still feels like a lot of time, which suddenly makes my slow morning feel like a small, luxurious gift. I toss the blankets aside and make my way to the couch, pulling the soft throw around my shoulders.
Scrolling through my phone, I fall into the endless scroll of memes and social media, but my thoughts keep drifting back to last night—the walk home, Conrad’s hand brushing mine, the brief, deliberate press of his lips against my hand. That little kiss is still lingering on my skin, and I can’t help the little smirk that tugs at my lips.
A sudden, sharp mrowww jolts me from my doom scrolling. I glance toward the window and freeze. There’s a glare of orange fur framed against the sunlight, a tiny paw tapping impatiently against the glass. Jelly Bean.
I laugh, moving quickly to fling the window open. “Good morning, Jelly Bean. You’re looking angry as usual. Didn’t have your coffee yet?” I tease, though my voice is soft, half-amused, half-warm.
Jelly Bean, my orange companion with the little pink nose that looks exactly like a pink jelly bean, stares at me with those fierce green eyes that somehow manage to look simultaneously judgmental and affectionate. She’s been showing up at my window every morning since I moved in a little over a month ago, claiming the apartment—or maybe just me. I still don’t know if she belongs to anyone, but she clearly likes my company. I like hers, too.
With the grace of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, Bean hops onto the couch, tail flicking like a little flag of conquest. I chuckle as she waits for me to plop down beside her. When I do, she pads over, nosing me briefly before settling on my chest, curling into a perfect little ball. The warmth of her body seeps into mine, her purring vibrating gently against my ribs.
“Bean,” I murmur, scratching the tiny space between her eyes that always makes her twitch in pleasure. “Where have you been these past few days, huh? I have so much to tell you.”
Her purring deepens, like she’s silently agreeing to listen, and I start rambling. I talk about last night’s walk, how his hand felt in mine, the kiss on my hand, the wide grin he gave before leaving, and the way my heart refuses to calm down even hours later.
I pause for a second to scratch her ears, watching her whiskers twitch as she kneads the couch lightly with her paws. Her soft, familiar weight on my chest is grounding, like a quiet anchor against the storm of my racing thoughts. And then I keep talking. I talk about my excitement, my nerves, all the little details I can’t stop thinking about.
Two hours slip by almost unnoticed. The sunlight shifts, casting long golden stripes across the living room, but I don’t move. Jelly Bean hasn’t moved either—she’s perched contentedly on me, purring as if she’s absorbing every word. Just like that, it feels like the morning exists only for us, a slow, warm cocoon of fur, sunlight, and the beginnings of something new.
I force myself off the couch, gently disentangling Jelly Bean from my chest. She gives a small, disgruntled meow as if to remind me I’m abandoning her, but I only laugh and make my way to the kitchen. I open a can of cat food and pour it into her little jelly bean ceramic bowl—the one I’d found at a thrift store and immediately thought of her. She darts to it eagerly, tail high, diving in as if she hasn’t eaten in days. I watch her for a moment, that familiar swirl of orange fur and pink nose, and feel a small smile curl onto my face.
Shaking myself out of my little morning trance, I head to the bedroom to pick out my outfit. I pull out a pair of light wash jeans, a loose white graphic tee, and my white sneakers. At least I’d managed to rope a dress code out of Conrad—his only answer had been “comfy.” So, this would do.
I take my sweet time in the bathroom, letting the warm water of the shower cascade over me. This time, it’s not the usual jarring chill—it’s perfectly comforting, almost indulgent. I close my eyes, letting the vanilla-scented body wash lather over my skin, rich and sweet, the smell bringing back memories of mall trips with Taylor when we had stocked up on it like it was treasure. The faint strains of Taylor Swift drift in from the living room, slipping under the door cracks, and I hum along, letting the music mingle with the water and the vanilla scent.
For the first time in two weeks, I let myself be fully in the moment. The nerves I usually felt before seeing Conrad—those tight, jittery butterflies that had started as soon as I’d gotten dressed for our previous encounters—are gone. I feel…light. Content.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap myself in a plush towel for a moment, enjoying the warmth against my skin, then move to blow dry my hair. I style it into loose waves, taking my time to make it look effortless, which, of course, it clearly isn’t. Once my hair is done, I start on my makeup, carefully adding just enough to feel polished but still like me.
Halfway through, my phone buzzes. A FaceTime call from Mom. I pick it up and prop the phone against my table, letting her fill the frame.
“Hi, Bean!” she chirps, her energy bright and bubbly.
“Hi, Mom. You look happy…what’s up? Hot date last night?” I tease, tilting my head and raising an eyebrow.
“Oh, stop it! You know my love life and sex life are practically dead now,” she says with a playful pout.
I can’t help but make a face at her, my nose wrinkling. “God, Mom,” I groan, tipping my head back. “I don’t want to know about your living or dead sex life.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” she shrugs casually.
“Are you going somewhere?” Her gaze shifts, landing somewhere just off-camera, and I realize she’s noticed me sitting at my table, hair already styled in loose waves, halfway through my makeup. My chest tightens slightly— I don’t want everyone to know just yet. Way too soon. My mom will just have to hear a little white lie until I’m ready.
“Oh—yeah! Just going out with some friends from college,” I say brightly, keeping my tone casual, forcing the lie to sound effortless.
“I thought they all had gone home for their break?” my mom questions, her tone casual but curious.
“Uh—yeah, I meant just some city friends,” I say quickly, the lie sliding out before I can stop it. I wonder if she can see right through me—mothers have that ability, like they’re hardwired to catch the flicker in your voice or the too-long pause.
Her eyes narrow for a split second, and my stomach twists. But she doesn’t push. She lets it go, at least for now.
“Anyway!” she says, her voice brightening. “I called you because I’m thinking of hosting a dinner here in Philly, with everyone.”
I tilt my head. “Everyone? Like—”
“Like everyone. Conklins, Jewels, and the Fishers.” She pauses, then adds pointedly, “This does not include Adam, so… with Conrad and Jeremiah.”
The words land heavier than she probably intends. My fingers still against my cheek, the makeup brush hovering midair. It’s been five years since everything happened—five years since we all sat at the same table, under the same roof, looking each other in the eye. The engagement party was the closest we’d come, all of us breathing the same air but still keeping to opposite corners of the room. It worked because we could dodge. We could pretend we weren’t inches away from old wounds.
But this… this would be different. Sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, passing dishes, making small talk that would inevitably scrape against history—it feels like a minefield.
“Um, Mom… I don’t know,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice even.
“Belly, I know.” Her tone softens but there’s steel underneath. “I understand that what happened was… well, fucked up. But we can’t spend the rest of our lives this way. They aren’t just anyone—they’re my boys, too. Beck’s boys.” She pauses, and I can hear her inhale through the phone. “Frankly, I’m tired of you all constantly running away from each other. It’s about time you all grow up and act maturely. It’s just one dinner.”
Her words hang there, and even though I’m sitting in my tiny bedroom with my makeup half done and my hair perfectly in place, I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen again, sitting at our old kitchen table while Mom lectures me about facing things head-on. Except this time, the thing I’d have to face is Conrad. And Jeremiah. Together.
“Bean, just do this. For me?” Her voice dips lower, steadier, like she’s willing me to hear every word. “I need my babies to be together again. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen you all together and, God, it breaks my heart.” My mom rarely ever cries—she isn’t right now either—but there’s a small, almost imperceptible shake in her voice that makes my chest tighten. “Losing Beck was hard enough. I can’t lose you all as well.”
She exhales softly, and for a second there’s just the faint hum of my apartment in the background—the fridge clicking on, the soft thud of Jelly Bean jumping onto the windowsill, probably taking her leave for the day.
“At the end of the day, it’s your decision, Bean. But I will be very disappointed in all of you if even one decides not to show up.”
I know she means that. And I hate it when my mom is disappointed in me. It’s the kind of feeling that drags me right back to being eight years old, standing in the kitchen after shattering one of her nice bowls because I’d been running around the house. I’d given her too many reasons to be disappointed when I was a teenager, back before I understood how heavy that look in her eyes could feel. Since the called-off wedding, I’ve tried—really tried—not to give her any more reasons. I’m not sure I could stand feeling it again.
“Okay. I—I’ll be there.” The words slip out before I can overthink them, but they land firm and sure in the space between us.
“Good. I’m proud of you. Now go get ready—for whoever it is you’re meeting. I’m always a call away.”
I can tell by the slight lilt in her voice that she never believed me about going out with just a “friend.” There’s no getting past her, not really.
“Okay. Love you, Mom.” I smile at the screen, softer now.
“I love you too.” And just like that, she hangs up.
I had a lot of time to kill after getting ready—even though I’d taken my sweet time with every step, dragging out my shower, lingering over my hair, fussing with my makeup. When I finally finished, the clock still ticked too slow. The anticipation sat inside me like a restless bird, fluttering every so often, so I busied myself with cleaning. I wiped down the counters, folded the blanket that had been abandoned on the couch, even organized the stack of mail I’d been ignoring. I told myself it was practical, that it would be nice to come home to a clean apartment. But really, it was just something to do with my hands while my mind spun in circles.
By now it’s creeping up on four, the minute hand drawing closer to the moment he said he’d arrive. I’d already gotten a second text from him not long after my FaceTime call with Mom ended, a neat little update: Just left, see you at 4 <3. I’d tried to talk him into giving me a hint about where we were going, but he only sent back a maddeningly smug, Patience, Isabel. My heart did that thing again—that sudden, traitorous flutter that made me press my phone to my chest like I could hold it down.
The knock comes sharp and sudden, and my body reacts before my brain does—I leap from the couch, almost tripping over my own eagerness. My feet padded too fast across the floor, a stuttered rhythm I couldn’t disguise, and of course he must have heard.
When I swing the door open, Conrad is standing there with an amused smile tugging at his mouth. Not the polite kind, but the kind that says he caught me in the act. His eyes crinkle at the corners, the proof that he heard me stumbling to the door, too excited to play it cool. My carefully built mask of nonchalance slips immediately, crumbling in the face of him, and I already know I’m caught.
“Hi,” he says, the smile not budging an inch. “Someone’s excited to see me.” His tone is teasing, light, but it makes my stomach flip.
“Shut up,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, though my voice comes out softer than I mean it to. I reach down to grab him by the wrist and pull him inside—when I notice what’s in his hand.
A bouquet.
He’s holding a bouquet of flowers tightly, fingers wrapped like they were afraid to drop something fragile. For a heartbeat, I just stare. The first time, I thought it was a fluke, a one-time gesture meant to ease the awkwardness of seeing each other again. But here he is, doing it again.
His eyes follow mine, and his grin shifts into something gentler. He lifts the bouquet slightly, holding it out to me. “These are for you.”
The wrapping is familiar—the same slightly crinkled brown paper as before, tied with a white linen ribbon, like something out of a corner market. But this time, the bouquet is smaller. Intentionally so, almost understated. Pink tulips and sprigs of baby’s breath peek out from the paper, delicate and tender. The tulips look like they’re caught mid-blush, leaning shyly toward the light.
“You got me flowers again.”
It was supposed to come out as a question, but the words fell flat and sure, like a statement I couldn’t quite dress up with curiosity.
He nods almost immediately, but then hesitates, his voice careful when he replies. “Yeah, I did. Is—is that alright?” The brightness in his face dips just slightly, his mouth faltering at the edges. He looks at me with a flicker of uncertainty, and I realize my shocked expression must have sent the wrong signal.
I force myself to soften, offering him a small smile meant to ease the nerves that have crept into his features. Reaching forward, I take the bouquet from his hands, brushing my fingers deliberately against his. The contact is quick, fleeting, but purposeful. “It’s more than okay,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat, tangled in the overwhelming rush of emotion that comes from something as simple as this.
“Okay, good.” He exhales with relief, a boyish smile tugging back at his lips, one that looks almost like the Conrad I used to know.
Instead of replying, I simply motion him inside, stepping back so he can pass. He does, his presence filling the space in that subtle, quiet way he has.
“So,” I say, unable to stop the cheesy grin tugging at my face, “are you going to tell me where we’re going now?”
“Jesus, you don’t give up, do you?” His voice follows me as I walk over to the kitchen cabinet, already rummaging.
“Please, I’m dying to know. You’re torturing me.” I stand on my toes to check the higher shelves, though I already know the outcome—I only own one vase, and it’s currently occupied by the slightly drooping daisies from yesterday.
“Okay, how about this—I’ll give you a hint.”
I freeze mid-search, my head whipping around to face him. “Yes, please, I’ll take anything.”
He chuckles at my eagerness, shaking his head before inhaling like he’s considering the weight of his words. Then, finally: “Okay… you used to love going here as a kid.”
My brain immediately flashes to Cousins. But no—that can’t be it. He wouldn’t. My thoughts scatter through old summers and memories, trying to sift out the possibilities, but there are too many. I could probably make a two-page list of places I used to beg to go.
“What—? That doesn’t narrow it down at all . There are too many places I used to like going to.”
“Yeah, well, it’s a hint, not an answer.” His lips curl into a smirk as he suddenly leans forward, reaching past me. His chest brushes against mine for the briefest moment, a whisper of contact that barely registers before he pulls away, too quick for me to process why he did it.
“This works?” His voice is casual, but when I glance down, he’s holding up a glass jar—one I usually use to store pasta.
I blink. “What?”
“For the flowers.” His eyes flick to the bouquet resting on the counter, then back to me.
“Oh! Yeah, this works.” I take the jar from him, rinsing it out and filling it with water, the sound of the tap running in the quiet. He stays beside me, carefully unwrapping the bouquet from its crinkled paper, smoothing out the ribbon and folding the paper neatly before setting both on the counter.
Even though this is only the second time we’ve done this, it feels strangely domestic—like muscle memory of something we’ve never actually shared. Yesterday, he’d asked if I wanted help. Today, he just reached for the paper without saying a word.
God.
Once Conrad finishes unwrapping the flowers, he steps closer, our shoulders brushing as he leans in to lower them into the jar-turned-vase. I lift the bouquet toward my face, breathing in the sweet, fresh scent—like sunlight on grass, like something that belongs to summer.
“Ready to go?” His voice is low and steady.
“Let’s go.”
We’ve been driving for about twenty minutes now, the city slowly falling away behind us, the streets stretching wider, quieter. Conrad’s got one hand steady on the steering wheel, the other resting loose in his lap, his posture relaxed in that effortless way of his.
My playlist spills through the speakers, songs he insisted on because he claims he likes my taste. The music fills the space between us, summer air drifting in through the cracked windows, carrying that faint mix of warmth and salt from somewhere far off.
Somewhere between track three and four, I start guessing. First as a joke, but once I get going, I can’t stop—then because the look on his face every time I’m wrong is too satisfying to give up.
“Are we going bowling?” I ask, propping my chin in my hand.
“No.” His mouth curves, barely, like he’s trying to hide it.
“Planetarium?”
“Still no.”
“Fine—then a bar. You’re taking me to some hidden little place with fancy cocktails and weird lighting, aren’t you?”
“Wrong again.”
“Ugh, okay… then it’s a picnic. You’ve packed a basket, blanket, the whole deal.”
He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Nope. But thanks, you’re giving me a list of future date ideas.”
“My, my, Fisher. Future date ideas, huh?” I tease, poking his shoulder. He swats me away with his free hand, barely sparing me a glance.
“I need to keep you entertained somehow, don’t I?”
“You could put me in an empty room with just you and I’d be entertained.” The words slip out before I can stop them. Now that I’m a little more comfortable, bravery rushes in where hesitation usually lives, and I don’t overthink it the way I normally would.
He flicks his eyes toward me, wide for a second before that familiar smirk curves across his face. “Are you flirting with me, Isabel?”
“Maybe.” I shrug, trying to play it cool even as my heart feels like it’s caught fire. “It’s just fun to see you this way.”
“What way?” His gaze stays trained on the road, but I can hear the edge of curiosity under his voice.
“I don’t know… planning dates and stuff. You know how to win a girl’s heart.”
Conrad chuckles, low and warm, the sound sinking into me. “Yeah? What else can I do to win a girl’s heart?”
“Telling her where the fuck you’re taking her, because I am actually losing my mind.”
At that, he shakes his head and breathes out a laugh. “You’re impossible.”
“Just tell me! How much longer can you torture a girl for?” I whine, shifting in my seat and twisting toward him like maybe sheer annoyance will make him crack.
Conrad doesn’t take his eyes off the road, one hand steady on the wheel, posture maddeningly calm. “Calm down, we’re almost there anyways.”
I narrow my eyes. Almost there is the most useless phrase in the world. “How much longer?”
He finally glances at his phone, probably checking the GPS he’s tucked so neatly out of my sight just to spite me.
“Twenty minutes.”
I groan, loud and dramatic, sliding down in the seat like I’ve just been sentenced to a hard time. He laughs under his breath, the sound soft but smug, like he’s enjoying every second of my misery. I keep throwing out guesses—mini golf, axe throwing, a psychic reading—until I run out of steam. By the time I slump against the window with a heavy sigh, he’s grinning like he’s won.
To fill the space, I start telling him about my neighbor, the one who thinks knocking on the ceiling with a broom is an acceptable way to tell me to turn the volume down.
Conrad laughs, shaking his head. “What are you even doing that’s so loud?”
“Literally existing. Breathing. Sometimes I think she just hates joy.”
“She must love you, then,” he teases, and I jab him in the arm while trying not to smile.
About ten minutes later, the impatience creeps back in, bubbling up again. “Are we there yet?” I ask, first out of genuine curiosity. When he ignores me, I say it again, and then again, just to see the muscle in his jaw twitch as he tries not to laugh.
“My god, you’re like the donkey from Shrek ,” he mutters, exasperated but smiling.
“Conrad Fisher, you did not just call me a fucking donk—”
My words cut short when I see it. At first, just a faint outline against the dusk, tall and glowing, coming sharper into focus the closer we drive.
A ferris wheel.
“Shut up!” I squeal, sitting bolt upright.
“I didn’t say anything,” he chuckles, eyes still trained on the road.
“Amusement park? Oh my god—I’ve never been to this part of the city!”
I roll the window down and lean halfway out into the breeze, my hair whipping around as the view floods in: the bright lights of the entrance, the swirl of colors and sounds spilling from inside. Even from here, I swear I can smell it—popcorn and cotton candy, the buttery smoke of corn dogs. It’s the scent of summer carnivals, of childhood, and suddenly Conrad’s earlier hint about childhood makes perfect, dazzling sense.
“Get your head back in before we have a Hereditary moment, Belly,” Conrad chuckles, his free hand reaching over to gently tug me back inside by the elbow.
I flop back into my seat, breathless with laughter. “I can’t believe you brought me to an amusement park. The last time I was at one was—”
“The summer after Mom died,” Conrad finishes softly, eyes still on the road. “When we were trying to save her house.”
Our gazes meet for just a second, a knowing smile passing between us. No need for words. The memory hangs there—sweet, sad, unspoken.
By then, he’s pulling into the parking lot, the glow of the ferris wheel spilling over the hood of his car. He cuts the engine and turns to me, his lips quirking. “You ready for this?”
“Fuck yeah, I am.”
The park hums with life the moment we step through the gates, the air thick with the smell of sugar and grease, the clatter of games, and the shrieks of laughter that rise and fall with every ride. Neon lights pulse in every direction, casting everything in candy-colored glow.
We start with the bumper cars, the static buzz clinging to our clothes as I swerve and crash into him more than anyone else, just to see the rare grin spread across his face. After that, we’re swept into a spinning ride that whips us around so hard my stomach flips, but I’m laughing the whole way through, hands in the air. Beside me, Conrad grips the bar tight, his jaw set, pretending not to look green around the edges. By the time we stumble off, I’m buzzing with adrenaline, while he insists he’s “fine” even as he takes a moment to steady himself against the railing.
We wander through the crowd with a swirl of pink cotton candy balanced between us, though it’s really mine more than his. Conrad still doesn’t have much of a sweet tooth, but every now and then I tear off a tuft and shove it at his mouth, just to watch him roll his eyes before giving in.
The games catch our attention next, bright stalls with barkers shouting promises that no one believes. At the “test your strength” machine, Conrad steps up first, wrapping both hands around the mallet with that quiet determination of his. He slams it down hard, and the meter shoots nearly all the way up—close enough to look impressive. He glances back at me with a smug, raised-brow kind of smile, like he’s daring me to admit he’s still got it.
But before I can even say anything, a lanky kid—maybe fifteen at most—ambles over, pays his dollar, and slams the mallet with so much force the meter shoots past Conrad’s score and rings the bell with a sharp, mocking ding. The kid barely reacts, just shrugs and wanders off with his friends.
I’m already doubling over with laughter when Conrad mutters something about the machine being “clearly broken” and tugs me away by the hand. I let myself be pulled along, my head tipped back in hysterical laughter, the sound spilling out uncontrollably.
Eventually, we drift toward a ring toss stand, its counter stacked high with every stuffed animal imaginable—floppy-eared puppies, wide-eyed owls, grinning sharks, even a giraffe whose neck is way too long to be practical. Rows of plush faces stare back at us under the glow of string lights, ridiculous and irresistible.
Conrad steps up, fishing a few bills from his wallet, his focus sharpening in that way it always does when he’s determined to prove something. The game looks simple enough: glass bottles lined up in neat rows, their narrow necks glinting under the bulbs. He grips the rings like he’s strategizing for battle.
The first toss bounces off with a sharp clink . The second rattles and falls flat. By the third, his jaw tightens, and I can practically feel the weight of his stubbornness radiating off him. I bite back a laugh, leaning casually against the counter.
“Don’t,” he mutters, eyes narrowing at the bottles.
“I didn’t say anything,” I reply, but my grin gives me away.
It takes him at least five tries—five very concentrated, borderline tense tries—before a ring finally drops cleanly over a bottle neck. The thunk is loud and satisfying, and he exhales like it was inevitable.
“Take your pick,” the man at the stand says, gesturing toward the wall of prizes.
Conrad nudges me with his elbow, his mouth quirking. “Well?”
I scan the lineup—rows of dolphins, foxes, and neon-colored bears—until my eyes snag on one in particular. A white polar bear, but not just any kind. This one’s wearing a magician’s hat tilted to the side, a tiny wand clutched in its paw.
“That one,” I say, pointing. “The polar bear.”
The man hands it over, and I hug it close. Its fur is soft, a little too bright in the fairground lights.
Conrad glances at it, his smile tugging wider. “So… Junior Mint gets a friend at last.”
“And a magician friend at that,” I say, brushing my fingers over the hat.
“They’ll look cute together, I hope they get to meet one day.”
“I hope so too.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything else. We just share a quiet, knowing look, the kind that holds more than words ever could. My smile grows, his mirroring mine, and then he nudges my shoulder with his and laces his hand with mine.
We don’t let go as we wander toward the next game, the kind with water guns aimed at a row of clown heads that bob back and forth. I square up next to Conrad, all mock-seriousness, and when the bell dings on my side first, I throw my hands up in triumph.
“Champion,” I announce, grinning wide, my laugh spilling out bright and unguarded.
Conrad, the sore loser that he is, turns his water gun on me mid-laugh. A cold jet of water sprays directly into my open mouth, and I choke on a gasp before shrieking. “Conrad!”
I grab my own gun and fire back, just enough to get him wet. Before it can turn into a full-blown water fight, a groan from the people in line and a sharp shout from the man running the booth cuts us off. “Hey! That’s enough!”
We’re kicked out before either of us can protest, still dripping and out of breath, doubled over with laughter as we stumble away.
The evening hums on like that—quick games, too much sugar, neon lights spinning together in a blur. By the time we finally pull ourselves away, my throat is raw from laughing, and my stomach aches with hunger.
We spot a diner tucked near the heart of the park, its windows glowing with the kind of warm yellow light that promises greasy food and bottomless soda. Without even needing to discuss it, we head inside, grateful for the blast of air conditioning and the promise of a booth to collapse into.
We place an order for cheeseburgers and fries with cold sodas to wash it all down, the kind of classic meal that already feels like part of the amusement park ritual.
While we wait, Conrad and I slip back into our rhythm, bickering over who’s actually worse at the games. I insist it’s him—his face when he lost at the basketball hoop is burned into my brain—but he swears the booths are rigged. “Just for me,” he claims, as if the entire carnival has conspired to ruin his winning streak. I roll my eyes so hard he laughs, leaning back like he’s proud to have gotten a rise out of me.
Our food arrives, mercifully cutting the argument short. We both fall quiet, too busy devouring the greasy, perfect mess of burgers and fries. By the time I’m licking salt off my fingers, I realize my basket is empty. I pout a little, nudging my plate away, when Conrad wordlessly slides the rest of his fries in front of me. He doesn’t even look at me while he does it, like he knew I’d run out first. I don’t argue—I know he won’t take them back. Instead, I pluck a fry and hold it up to his mouth. He accepts it without hesitation, lips brushing my fingertips before he chews, and the corner of his mouth quirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
Once we’re full and recharged, we head back out into the night air. The sky has melted into a warm, lingering sunset, streaks of orange and pink fading into the horizon. Against it, the neon lights blaze even brighter, casting the whole park in a dreamy, electric glow. We fall into step together, weaving through the crowd as we make our way toward the Ferris wheel—the very edge of the park, the exact opposite of where we started.
Conrad hands over a couple bills for tickets, slipping them into his back pocket as the attendant waves us forward. We step into the cabin, the metal floor shifting slightly under our feet as the door swings shut behind us. It smells faintly of popcorn and warm steel, the air humming with the low groan of the ride’s gears.
I slide onto the bench, and Conrad sits beside me—not too close, not too far. Just enough that our shoulders brush when the cabin rocks. The wheel lurches forward, and we start to rise, the park unfolding beneath us in bursts of neon and shadow.
For a while, neither of us said anything. It isn’t awkward. It’s just… easy. The kind of silence that fills itself. I rest my head against the glass window for a moment, watching the tiny clusters of people moving below us, the lights bending into blurry ribbons.
“Crazy how small it all looks from up here,” I murmur, more to the window than to him.
Conrad shifts, leaning back against the seat. “Yeah. Makes the noise feel kind of far away.”
We sit with that for a beat, the cabin swaying gently, before I speak up again. “Mom called me today.”
He tilts his head, humming for me to go on.
“She’s hosting a dinner. With everyone—Conklins, Jewels, Fishers. Not your dad.”
At the mention of Adam not being invited, his mouth tugs like he’s fighting a smile that doesn’t stand a chance. It fades quickly. His brows pull together, like he’s already turning the thought over in his head.
“We all haven’t been together since—”
“The wedding. Well… almost wedding,” I say quietly.
He glances at me. “And how do you feel about that?”
I let out a soft laugh that doesn’t sound all that funny. “I don’t know. I mean, now I’m on good terms with both you and Jere. Better terms with you now.” I smile, and he actually smiles back, slow and real. His hand finds mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his thumb brushing over the knuckle his lips touched just last night.
“But Jeremiah and I…” I trail off, shrugging. “We haven’t really talked much, but I guess we are like friends again. And now with you and I—” I can’t find the right word for whatever this is, so I just leave it hanging. “I’m not sure how it’s going to…be.”
Conrad doesn’t answer, just nods, his expression dipping into something unreadable.
I sit up straighter, the sudden movement making the cabin rock. “Hey.” I grab his arm, grounding him, grounding myself. “I’m not saying I want to stop seeing you. Don’t think that. Never again, Conrad. It feels like my whole life flipped since I saw you at the party—like for the better. Nothing could change my mind about that, okay?”
His lips twitch into the smallest smile, and he nods. “Okay. Go on.”
I exhale, realizing I’d been holding my breath. “Right. That’s pretty much it. I’m just… worried, I guess. About how it’s all going to go.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, like he’s gathering the words. Then: “Belly, I don’t want anyone to come between us anymore. I want this to be about you and me—no one else. I haven’t told anyone because… I don’t want opinions this time. We don’t have to announce anything, we don’t have to pretend either. We just get to be us. That’s it.”
Something in me softens, loosens. He always knows what to say, always has—even when we were at our worst.
The lights from the park flicker across his face, painting him in soft colors, and I swear my heart stumbles.
“You always make it sound so simple,” I whisper. “And maybe that’s what I need. For it to just be us. No history, no noise, no sides to pick.”
His thumb stills on my hand, pressing lightly against the dip of my knuckle. When he speaks, his voice is low, careful. “That’s all I want too. Just you.”
We hold each other’s gaze, something unspoken stretching between us. Then he lets my hand slip from his, only to lift his own to my face. My pulse stutters. His fingers brush against a loose strand of my hair, catching it delicately before tucking it behind my ear. But he doesn’t move away. Instead, his palm lingers, cradling the side of my face like it’s something breakable. His thumb drifts over my cheekbone in a touch so featherlight it makes my breath catch.
I see his eyes drop to my mouth, then flick back to mine. The look in them is steady, searching, as if he’s asking me a question without saying a word.
And without thinking, I nod. Because I do want this—God, I want it. The kiss I’ve been aching for, the one I’ve carried like a phantom all these years, like the final piece of a picture that never felt complete without him.
Conrad’s lips curve in the faintest smile as he leans in, slow and careful, his forehead brushing mine. The gap between us narrows to a breath, to nothing—
—and then the cabin jolts with a loud metallic groan, the ride grinding to a halt. My body startles at the noise, heart leaping as I glance out the window. We’ve stopped. Not at the top, not suspended in the sky like in all the movies, but right back on the ground.
Conrad exhales a deep breath, almost a laugh, and shakes his head. There’s a wry smile tugging at his mouth, but when he looks at me again, it softens into something else. Something tender.
We’re shaken out of our trance by a cough from the worker holding the cabin door open. Conrad steps out first, then turns and holds his hand out to me. I place mine in his without hesitation, letting him guide me carefully down the small step.
Once we’re clear of the Ferris wheel’s whir and flashing lights, the crowd thinning behind us, I don’t make any move to let go. His fingers lace with mine naturally, like this is how it’s supposed to be.
“Ready to leave?” he asks softly, the words barely above a whisper.
I can’t trust myself to speak just yet, so I settle for a small smile and a nod. The warmth in his grip is enough for now.
And just like that, we fall into step together, walking toward the parking lot. The plush bear tucked under one arm, my fingers entwined with his, the quiet hum of the park fading behind us, it feels like the world has shrunk to just the two of us.
Notes:
hello i'm sure you're thinking that i am evil and ykw i might just be...
what do you guys think of the increased word count? and this chapter in general?
let's have some fun discussions in the comments (its honestly my favorite part of posting!!) and don't forget to give kudos, bookmark and subscribe!!
Chapter 8: viii.
Notes:
Helloo! sorry for the tease from the last chapter LMAO, it was too fun not to!!
also im posting this again because i think ao3 glitched and the update never showed up on the page?? hopefully im not fucking up here
I do have somethings to tell you, specifically amount the timeline of this fic so far?
Taylor and Steven's engagement party happened in the beginning of May, and Conrad and Belly constantly texted each other for two weeks following the party, till Conrad asked her to get dinner. So right now, they are basically reaching the end of May!
Just wanted to clear that up, it was bothering me that i never made that completely clear!
Also i am moving the pinterest board to the end of the chapter because i'm worried that people will get spoilers if they click on it before even reading the whole chapter...at least that's what i would do!
Anyway!! I hope you enjoy this chapter, warning: get ready to giggle and kick your feet around🤭
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
viii.
She lasted about ten minutes before her eyelids started to betray her. Every time her head tipped against the window, she’d jolt awake, like she was convincing herself she wasn’t tired. Stubborn as ever. I didn’t say anything—didn’t dare.
The car was quiet except for her playlist humming low through the speakers, and with her finally giving in beside me, my mind slipped back to this afternoon. To her pestering me about the plan, about where we were going, how long it would take. She must’ve asked me a dozen different ways. I rolled my eyes, pretended to be annoyed, but she knew I wasn’t. She always knows.
She guessed places the whole drive, each one more ridiculous than the last. And I could’ve told her, sure. But then I wouldn’t have gotten to see her light up every time she thought she’d cracked it. Wouldn’t have seen the way she’d throw her head back and groan when I told her no, already spinning out her next guess. That alone made me keep my mouth shut. Just… watching her be excited about a date I planned—it did something to me.
I keep seeing her leaning half out the window when the ferris wheel finally came into view. The wind whipping her hair around, strands sticking to her lip gloss, her smile so wide it almost knocked me out. I wanted to tuck her hair back, wanted it more than I should’ve.
All day I was an idiot, pulling stunts like I was thirteen again, trying to impress her. Failing half the time, but even then—hearing her laugh, really laugh—it felt like winning.
It’s been like that since the beginning. Summers at Cousins, I’d catch myself showing off whenever she was around. Staying underwater longer than Steven or Jere, just to see her clap from the edge of the pool. Spending hours building huge sandcastles to impress her. I told myself it was nothing back then, but the truth is—I’ve always needed her eyes on me. Always wanted to be the one she came to with questions. She never went to Steven, never to Jere. She came to me. And no matter how many times she asked, I answered.
But it was her laugh… god. If I could make her laugh, my whole chest would feel full. It still does.
Now she’s curled up against the seat, sleeping so sound I almost can’t breathe, fearing that I would wake her up. Her breathing is steady, her lips parted just a little, and every so often she lets out this tiny snore. I shouldn’t find it endearing, but I do. She takes the smallest, most ordinary moments and somehow makes them the ones I want to keep forever.
Sometimes the feelings get so heavy I don’t know what to do with them. There’ve been nights where I’ve had to press my palm against my chest, like I could slow my own heart down. She knocks the air out of me just by existing.
My thoughts pull toward the ferris wheel. To the way her eyes met mine when I brushed her hair back, when my thumb skimmed her cheekbone, when her forehead tipped against mine. I thought, for one perfect second, that I’d finally get to kiss her.
But I’m not disappointed that we didn’t. Because the part that’s burned into me is when I looked for an answer—when I searched her face for permission—and she nodded. She wanted it too. And that’s everything.
Truth is, I found myself wanting to kiss her every time I’ve seen her these past few weeks, I wanted to remember what it felt like to have her lips against mine, have her that close to me again. At the party, out on the patio. After dinner, when I dropped her off. Last night, when I held her hand and kissed her knuckle. Every single time, I stopped myself. We made a promise to take it slow, and I am not sure as hell not fucking it up this time.
I didn’t give her what she needed when we were together before. I failed her more than I’ll ever admit out loud. But therapy’s taught me to give myself grace. To recognize how much I took on that was never mine to carry. Being the oldest does that—it wires you to think you’re responsible for every single thing that goes wrong. And when that belief grows roots… you start to believe every loss, every failure, every hurt is your fault.
Now I know, it wasn’t fair. Not to me. And definitely not to her either.
I lost her more times than I ever really had her, and it gutted me every single time. Before the engagement party, I told myself that I’d leave her alone, not bother her. The same way she asked me to five years ago. And yet, when I saw her again, I forgot everything. I forgot everything that happened, everything that broke.
Now I’m driving her home, and she’s asleep in my passenger seat, and I know better. I’ve been given another chance. And there’s no way I’m letting her slip through my fingers again.
Her head tips again, this time onto her shoulder, and I have the stupidest urge to reach over and guide it against me instead. To let her sleep with the kind of ease I never could give her before. My grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles whitening, because even now I’m scared of wanting too much.
The city lights start to bleed into the windshield as we get closer, glowing halos that blur at the edges. I steal glances at her profile, committing it to memory—lashes pressed against her skin, the faint smudge of gloss still clinging to her bottom lip, the little crease between her brows that hasn’t smoothed out even in sleep. I wish I could take it all away, every trace of hurt I ever put there.
We hit a red light, and I let myself look at her fully. I think about all the times I’ve driven this late at night with nothing but silence to keep me company. And then there’s tonight—her playlist still looping low, her presence filling every inch of the car even in her sleep. It doesn’t feel lonely anymore.
By the time I pull up to her building, I almost don’t want to stop. The engine hums quiet, headlights throwing pale beams across the sidewalk. For a second, I just sit there. Watching her. Trying to summon the courage to wake her gently, to hold onto this moment before it slips away.
“Belly.”
The sound of my name drifts into the haze of sleep, low and careful, like he’s testing the waters. My lashes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, but the voice pulls me back.
“Belly.”
I shift, becoming aware of the soft pressure of his hand brushing along my arm. He’s only leaning the slightest bit over from his seat, but it’s enough to send a shiver racing across my skin. His fingers move in slow strokes—absentminded, maybe—but they light up every nerve ending, and goosebumps bloom along the trail he leaves behind.
I force my eyes open, just enough to meet his. They’re the first thing I see in the dim glow of the dashboard—warm, intent, impossibly gentle. The world outside is muted, streetlamps painting faint halos across the glass, but it feels like we’re the only two people in it. His eyes lock onto mine, and there’s a pull there I can’t look away from, no matter how much my body begs to close my eyes again.
“Hey there,” Conrad says, his mouth tipping into the faintest curve. “Thought you were dead for a second.”
“I think I was for a second.” I stretch in place, a small groan slipping out as my head falls back against the seat. “Sorry I slept, though. Pretty rude of me.”
“Don’t worry. You were tired.” His smile is small, soft.
“Well, I’m definitely not now. That nap might’ve just cured me.”
He gestures toward the window. “We’re in front of your building, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I have.” My voice is quiet, steady, though I don’t look away from him. I can’t.
His lips twitch into a half-smile, and he rakes a hand through his hair—the careless kind of gesture that’s far too distracting. “So, are we planning to camp out in my car tonight?” he teases, though something in his tone makes it feel like he wouldn’t actually mind if we did.
“Maybe.” I shrug, even though my chest feels tight. “I don’t want today to end so soon.”
His smile shifts, softening into something almost pained. “I don’t either,” he admits, voice low enough that it hums more than it echoes. He glances out the window, then back at me. “But unless you want to stay in the car all night, we have to go home.”
“Unless…” I sit up a little straighter, pulse quickening. “We just don’t go home yet.”
Conrad leans back in his seat, head tipping toward me in curiosity. “Say more.”
“There’s this bar, like five minutes from here. If you’re interested.” I pause, then add, “Plus, I hear they’ve got a buy-one-get-one-free deal on drinks.”
His mouth curves into something brighter. “Oh. Then we have to go.” And with that, he cuts the engine and unclicks his seatbelt.
A laugh escapes me at his urgency, though something tells me it’s not the free drinks making him enthusiastic. By the time I’ve fumbled with my seatbelt, he’s already out of the car, opening the door for me, his hand reaching out.
I place mine in his, warm and steady, and step out into the night.
The beers had landed on the table with a satisfying clink, condensation sliding down the glass bottles. I’d done a little victory dance in my seat the moment the bartender confirmed the rumor—that buy one, get one free was very much real. Conrad had only shaken his head, but I swear I caught the corner of his mouth twitch like he was holding back a laugh.
We’re already halfway through our drinks when I swat at his arm, laughing so hard my stomach hurts. “You’re such a jerk. It’s not that bad.”
“Belly, your couch looks like it’s about a hundred years old,” he says, grinning, leaning back against the leather of the booth. His voice has that amused drawl I know too well.
“Hey!” I protest, hitting him lightly again. “That couch has character. And it survived the journey from my dad’s to mine. Barely. But it did.”
He smirks, tilting his bottle toward me before taking another sip. Then his expression softens, just a little. “I do love your apartment though. Have I told you that?”
“Is that so?” I arch a brow, fighting a smile.
“Yeah,” he says, and his gaze flicks toward me in a way that makes it hard to breathe. “It feels… like you.”
“Taylor and Steven never miss a chance to roast me for my taste, you know,” I say, settling back against the booth cushion.
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs, deadpan. “Their aesthetic is similar to that of a beige mom’s.”
The words come out so perfectly flat that I snort—loud and graceless—before I can stop myself. My hand flies to my mouth, horrified, which only makes him break. Soon we’re both doubled over, laughing into our bottles, shoulders brushing with every shake of it. The kind of laughter that leaves your cheeks aching and your chest lighter than you thought it could feel.
By the time it ebbs, I’ve shifted sideways in the booth, my back resting against the window. The glass is cool against my shoulder, grounding. I stretch my legs out, and without thinking too much about it, drape them across Conrad’s thighs. He doesn’t make a big deal of it—just rests his hand lightly on my shin at first, then lets it slide down until it’s resting easy on my thigh, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I pretend not to notice, but my pulse definitely does.
“I bet your apartment is just a copy-paste of an IKEA store,” I tease, smirking at him over the lip of my bottle.
He gasps, clutching at his chest with mock offense. “How could you think that low of me? I have taste.”
“Do you, though?” I drawl. “Where’s all your furniture from then?”
He hesitates just long enough for my smirk to deepen.
Finally, he mutters, “…IKEA.” Then quickly, “But! Tastefully decorated.”
I let out a laugh. “Sure. Totally believable.”
“You think I’m some bachelor with a mattress on the floor and a TV on a milk crate?” He leans closer, lowering his voice in mock-seriousness. “Come on, Belly. You know me better than that.”
Something about the words lingers between us, shifting the air just slightly. My smile falters into something smaller, quieter. “Do I, though?” I ask softly. “Know you? We’re speaking after five years. You could’ve changed.” I shrug.
His brows draw together, and for a beat, there’s nothing playful in his expression. “I don’t think I’ve changed at all,” he says finally, his voice steady. “But you can test that. Ask me whatever you want.”
I blink at him, caught off guard. “Conrad Fisher, are you giving me full liberty to ask whatever I want? That’s a dangerous game, you know.”
His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Maybe I like dangerous games.”
That does me in—I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, my head tipping forward until my forehead bumps against his for just a moment. It’s casual, intentional, and he doesn’t flinch. If anything, his grin widens.
When the laughter ebbs again, I tilt my head, studying him. “Okay,” I say, my voice softer now. “How about this—we take turns. I ask you one question, then you ask me one. That way it’s fair.”
He thinks about it, lips quirking. Then he nods. “Deal. Fire away.”
"How many girls have you dated since me?" I ask, my tone casual, though my chest tightens the second the words leave my mouth. I know the answer could possibly sting, leave me with a hint of pain I’d rather not feel tonight—but might as well get it out of the way now.
Conrad’s eyebrows shoot up, a surprised laugh slipping out as he toys with the label on his bottle. "Wow, you’re really going for it, huh?"
"Come on, answer." I tilt my head, trying to play it off like it’s nothing, like I don’t actually care, my finger tracing the rim of my beer glass.
He exhales slowly, his shoulders shifting back against the booth. "Two. In college."
I swallow. "Serious?"
His grin returns, sly and evasive. "It’s not your turn anymore."
I roll my eyes, poking his side. "Fine. Go on."
He thinks for a moment, his gaze flicking outside the window before landing back on me. "Same question. How many guys have you dated in the last five years?"
I hesitate, then shrug, bringing my bottle up for a sip. "Also two."
The truth tumbles out before I can second-guess myself. After my life had settled in Paris, after I’d stopped crying myself to sleep and learned how to breathe in that city, I started meeting people. French guys had a way of circling my friend and I at clubs or bars, their charm as casual as the smoke curling from their cigarettes. Some were absolute assholes, some were genuinely nice.
The first one, Louis, was during my first year there. He was sweet in a distracted sort of way, and we were both freshly bruised from our past relationships. It wasn’t serious—God, how could it be, when I’d just come out of a called-off wedding? It wasn’t exactly friends with benefits, but it wasn’t commitment either. It worked at the time. We gave each other what we needed in the moment.
It ended the day he decided he was ready for something real. With someone else. And honestly? It didn’t bother me one bit. That told me everything I needed to know. I didn’t like him enough, not the way it would’ve mattered.
The second was André, my last year in Paris. Brief but passionate. He was the kind of French guy who smoked like a chimney and strung nicknames in French across my skin, the way only someone born into the language could. Later I realized that was the most fuckboy thing a French guy could do, but at the time? I fell for it. It was fun. More sexual than anything else, really.
A part of me felt a little relieved when Conrad didn’t ask further about it. "Okay, my turn. Were they serious?"
Conrad leans back, he takes a slow sip of his beer. "Nope. One was Agnes, who’s now my friend, and the other was… a friend of hers. Who ended up having a foot fetish. So that ship sailed pretty quick."
I take a sip of my beer at the wrong time, nearly choking on it, and slap my palm over my mouth to keep from spitting it everywhere. "Wait. What?!"
His laugh is immediate, warm and unguarded, like he’s enjoying this way too much.
"Hold up," I say, practically throwing a hand between us. "I need to know more about this."
Conrad chuckles, running a hand through his hair. "Um, well… we’d been going out for maybe three weeks? And the first time we were about to kiss," his voice dips just enough to make heat crawl up my neck, "she drops this bomb. Tells me she gets off to the thought of my feet."
I blink at him, incredulous, and then burst out laughing so hard my stomach hurts, thumping my bottle down onto the table before I drop it.
"Oh my god, I wish I was there to see your face when that happened," I manage between gasps of laughter, clutching my stomach now. The image is too good—Conrad, stoic, unreadable Conrad, blindsided by something like that.
"Fuck off," he groans, dragging both hands down his face, his ears tinged pink.
I’m still laughing when I lean back against the booth’s window. "Man, I am so telling Steven about this."
His head snaps toward me. "Oh, you wouldn’t dare."
"I would." I grin.
"You know what," he says finally, narrowing his eyes at me, "I’m starting to regret playing this game with you."
"Well, it’s too late for that now. It’s your turn."
“Do you ever miss it? Cousins, I mean.” Conrad’s voice comes quieter this time, carrying a weight that makes me pause. His thumb shifts absentmindedly against the bottle of beer in his hand, eyes flicking toward me before settling on the table.
There’s a noticeable shift between us, like someone dimmed the lights on our easy laughter. The game of trading silly questions has slipped into something real, and part of me feels that pang of disappointment. It’s easier to pretend, to float above the surface of the past, than to wade into it. The past still scares me.
I stare into the rim of my bottle, watching a bubble cling stubbornly to the side. “I… actually went there. The week I came back from Paris.” My voice falters, soft but steady enough. “But I left the same day I arrived. It felt almost… foul to be there, after everything.” The words trail off, dissolving before I can name what ‘everything’ really means.
Conrad knows what ‘everything’ means, but doesn’t push. Instead, his hand squeezes my thigh lightly, where it had been resting since the game started. The light squeeze is subtle but deliberate, and when I look up, his eyes are waiting for mine. There’s caution in them—like he’s asking without speaking if I can handle this.
I manage a small nod, enough to let him know I’m okay. At least in this moment.
“I think I do want to go back eventually,” I admit, my gaze dropping toward the condensation dripping down his beer bottle. “I just… feel scared. Especially to be there alone.”
His brows knit together in that thoughtful way of his. Then, as if the answer has already been decided, he says, “You don’t have to be alone. How about this—before your job starts, and before my residency starts, we go to Cousins.”
The suggestion lands like a spark in my chest, lighting up something that feels equal parts excitement and dread. Cousins. The thought of walking those streets again, the beach stretching out endlessly in front of me, the house with its porch light flickering—it all feels too close, too vivid. And yet, imagining going with him changes everything.
The plan isn’t far into the future, just a little over a month really, and that terrifies me. Because part of me whispers that something will come between us before then, that I’ll lose this fragile thread we’ve managed to find again.
I don’t want him to see that fear. So I tip my chin up, summon a smile, and say, “I’d like that.”
And the truth is, I mean it.
My eyes drift away from his, tracing the condensation ring his bottle left on the table. I already know what I want to ask, though the thought of saying it out loud makes my stomach tighten. Still, the moment feels right—like the air is holding still just long enough to give me the chance.
“Why did you keep writing me letters even though you didn’t get a reply?”
The question hangs there, heavy, and I see it land on him immediately. His body reacts before his voice does: the clench of his jaw, the faint grinding of his teeth, the long swallow he takes from his beer as if he can wash the answer down with it. His hand, the one resting on my thigh, twitches as though he’s about to pull away. My chest seizes at the thought, but then—he doesn’t. He stays. That alone feels monumental, proof that maybe he has changed, no matter how much he doubts it himself.
“I—I guess I thought that you’d eventually reply.” His free hand goes to his jaw, scratching at the faint stubble there. He’s buying himself a second before continuing, but when he does, his words are colored with something sharp. “I felt pretty confident that you’d write me back.” A bitter laugh escapes him, short and humorless, and it cuts at me.
Something instinctive rises in me, a pull to soften the edges of his pain. I slide my hand over his, wrapping it fully, grounding him where it rests against me. Our fingers lace together easily, like muscle memory, and he glances down at them as if he can’t believe it’s happening.
“I was hopeful that you’d write back,” he admits, quieter now, his thumb brushing over the side of his empty bottle. “But the fucking letters didn’t even reach you. I bet some French prick had been getting them all along.” His laugh this time is less bitter, more broken, and he shakes his head before taking the last swig of his beer. He sets the bottle down with a dull thud, empty now.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. The words slip out before I can stop them, and my thumb draws slow circles over the back of his hand, as if apologizing with touch as well as words.
His head snaps up sharply, his eyes catching mine. For a moment I’m afraid I’ve said the wrong thing, but then I see the change. His gaze softens in that way only Conrad’s ever has—like he’s looking at me and through me, all at once.
“No,” he says firmly, sitting up straighter and shifting so he’s fully facing me. My legs slip from his lap as he moves, but his hands don’t let go of mine. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I’m the one who should apologize. I get so… cold whenever this topic comes up, and I don’t want you to see that side of me anymore. I’m just dumb and bitter that I lost so much time with you over some lost letters.”
His eyes lock onto mine, unwavering, and it feels like he’s delivering the most important truth he’s ever said. The bar noise blurs away—the low murmur of voices, the clink of glassware, even the distant thump of music—all of it fades until there’s only him and the words between us.
I draw in a deep breath and inch closer, pulling both his hands into mine now. The space between us shrinks until I can really see him, every detail sharpened even under the shitty yellow lights of the bar. The faint stubble shadowing his jaw, the nervous sheen of his lips from where he’s licked them too much, the tiny scar on his cheek from when he fell off his bike as a kid, the mole just above his lip I’ve traced before in what feels like a different lifetime.
“First of all,” I say, my voice low but steady, “you are not dumb.” He opens his mouth like he’s about to argue, but I cut him off with a look—a silent warning. His mouth closes again, obedient, which almost makes me smile. “Second of all, you’re human. You can’t be perfect, Con. I don’t want you to hide your emotions in front of me. We can’t do that to each other anymore.”
Conrad doesn’t answer right away. Seconds stretch, then longer, and I think for a moment maybe I pushed too far. But then, slowly, he nods. His shoulders relax just slightly, like he’s setting down a weight he’s carried too long.
“Okay,” he says finally, his voice quieter than before but earnest. “I—I’ll work on that. I know I need to.”
“Good. I need to work on a lot as well. We can do that together?” The words slip out softer than I mean them to, and I instantly hear the hesitation in my own voice. Together. It hangs in the air like something too delicate, too new. A part of me still wonders what he wants—what I want. The thought of claiming that word feels almost petrifying.
“Together.” His answer is simple, steady, and it makes something unclench in me. He brings my hand to his mouth, lips brushing against my knuckle in a kiss so gentle it’s almost reverent. The gesture mirrors the one from the night before.
My breath catches, and I’m almost certain the flush spreading across my cheeks is visible even through the skin tint I’d carefully applied earlier. I duck my gaze for a second, giving myself away.
I clear my throat lightly. “You wanna get another beer or head out?” My voice wavers, betraying the shakiness I’m trying to mask.
Conrad leans back slightly, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I need to drive back. Should I be responsible, or should I have one more just so I can stay with you a little longer?” His tone is teasing, but there’s a layer beneath it—something earnest, like he really would risk it just to extend this night.
I let out a dramatic sigh, pressing the back of my free hand to my forehead in mock despair. “We must be responsible adults,” I declare, dragging the words out for effect. The act works—he grins wide, that boyish grin I’ve always loved, the kind that still has the power to make my chest ache.
With that, we slide out of the booth. He walks close beside me, brushing a hand lightly against my back as we step into the low hum of the bar again.
We weave through the tables, past the faint clinking of glasses and laughter that feels miles away from the bubble we’d been in. The door is just ahead, neon lights spilling in from outside. I glance at him, and for a fleeting second, I let myself think about how easy it felt, sitting next to him just now. How impossible it is to let go of that.
And then, together, we push through the door into the night.
We are now walking back to my building. The distance isn’t much—barely a five-minute stroll if you keep straight—but somehow, with Conrad beside me, we manage to get lost on purpose. We turn corners we don’t need to, wander down quieter streets, dragging out the walk until twenty minutes have passed and my apartment is now just a few blocks away. It feels deliberate, like neither of us wants the night to end, like we’d both rather circle the city forever than face the moment when we have to say goodbye.
The city hums around us in its usual way—distant car horns, a group of college kids laughing too loudly, the muted thrum of bass leaking from a bar we pass—but it all blurs into the background. My attention is tethered to the warmth of his hand in mine, to the rhythm of our steps falling into sync, to the steady beat of my heart that stutters every time his thumb brushes the back of my palm.
Our little game of questions continues, the tone remaining the same as it was at the bar, heavy and almost intimate. Each question cuts closer, peels back another layer we’ve spent years building over.
Then comes the one that makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.
“Did you ever think of me in Paris?” His voice is low, roughened by something vulnerable, and the weight of it lingers in the cool night air. He doesn’t look away when he asks. His eyes are locked on mine, dark and glassy under the streetlight, holding a sheen of something I can’t quite name—hope, maybe, or fear. Whatever it is, it makes my chest tighten so sharply it almost hurts.
Paris.
The word itself is enough to unspool me.
I think back to those nights, the ones where he crept into my mind uninvited. I’d be curled up in a strange apartment, too quiet after long days, or lying in bed hazy from too much wine. That was when he always came to me—when I was defenseless. I never let myself think of him in the daylight, not when I was sober, sharp, and in control. The wound was too raw, too dangerous. Pressing on it in the light of day would have been unbearable.
But in the dark? In the dark, Conrad was everywhere. His voice, his touch, his broken confession the night everything shattered. I would replay it until it burned, until I had no choice but to let the tears come. Silent, steady tears that slid down my cheeks like they had all the time in the world, because in those moments, they did.
And beneath it all, the truth I couldn’t ignore: he had handed me his heart, fragile and certain, and I had dropped it. Again.
“Yes.” The word slips out before I can brace myself. It’s quiet, but it carries everything. “Of course I did, Con.”
Something flickers across his face then—brief, unreadable—but when his eyes soften, when I see that sharp edge of vulnerability ease, it nearly knocks the breath out of me.
“What did you think about?” His voice is gentle, coaxing. He doesn’t push, but his hand tightens around mine, urging me closer without a word.
I falter, biting down on my lip. “I—I just regretted a lot of things.” The admission tumbles out, shaky, and I glance up at him for a moment before dropping my gaze back to the pavement beneath our feet, as if the cracks in the sidewalk could anchor me.
He tilts his head slightly, watching me carefully, the curve of his brow soft but insistent. His voice lowers, steady, certain: “What did you regret?”
The question lands like a weight between us, heavy and suffocating, pressing down on my chest. I can feel it, how close I am to breaking open, how thin the walls I’ve kept up for years really are. Shame, sorrow, longing—they rise together, colliding inside me, and for a second I want nothing more than to run. To escape before I spill too much.
But then I glance at him—Conrad, walking beside me, his hand still wrapped around mine—and I know I can’t. Not anymore. Not when he’s here, not when he’s spent these nights being nothing other than truthful. If I keep dodging, keep hiding, we’ll never move forward.
So I breathe, shaky but deliberate, and let myself fall into the truth.
“Lots of things,” I say, voice soft but firm. The words slip out before I can gather them back. “Kissing Jeremiah that summer. The night of prom. The funeral.” My throat tightens at the last one, but I push through, even as the ache builds. “The wedding—most of all.”
A bitter laugh scrapes its way out, twisted and hollow. “If I could go into the past, I’d change everything. Things would be a lot different now.”
Conrad doesn’t say anything, instead he nods. I don’t think he’s ready to talk about it all yet, and you know what, I feel relieved at that because I don’t think I am either.
“Do you have any regrets?” I turn to him.
Conrad lets out a soft chuckle at this, his thumb brushing across my hand like he’s steadying both of us.
“Yeah,” he says finally, the word heavy with everything he doesn’t need to explain. He nods once, his gaze catching mine. “You know I do.”
Suddenly all I can think about are the countless times we let anger burn through us instead of love. The summer nights where we screamed at each other on the beach, our voices hoarse and reckless, too young to understand that words could leave bruises that lingered longer than anything else.
We were so stupid back then. Stupid, and so, so in love.
I remember the nights he whispered his regrets into the dark, his voice low but raw. Prom night, when everything cracked open between us. The motel room, when it felt like we were teetering on the edge of something too big for us to hold. His confessions used to feel like small wounds reopening, but right now, they come back to me almost like a tether, a reminder that he had always felt the weight of us, too.
I’d almost forgotten that—how much he carried, how much he regretted right alongside me.
I shift slightly, the weight of our shared silence pressing in, and my voice drops almost unconsciously.
“Any new regrets?”
I don’t know why I’m asking him these questions. It’s almost like I’m pushing, pushing for answers. My curiosity overpowers my guilt for putting him in these vulnerable positions.
“I regret… not reaching out to you sooner,” he admits, his tone low and unguarded, every word carrying the gravity of years he never spoke aloud.
“Hm?” I murmur, suddenly feeling adrift in a space that’s both painfully intimate and achingly familiar. It’s like a dream I’ve had too many times, one where I’m always just on the cusp of something I can’t quite hold onto.
“I wish I had come to your graduation,” he continues, the words soft, almost a whisper.
As we take a turn, I realize that we’ve circled back to my building now, and there’s no chance of escape for another round of walking anymore.
As we get close to my building, I reply, “I think…” My gaze flickers up to his lips for a fraction of a second before returning to his eyes, though I know he saw it—and the thought sends a thrill crawling through me. My voice catches slightly, a hitch betraying the swirl of emotions tightening my chest. “…we shouldn’t feel bad about what didn’t happen in the past. We should just… be here, in the present.”
Conrad’s eyes flicker down to my lips, then back up, and the way he’s watching me makes the space between us feel charged, like the world has shrunk to just us, this street, this suspended moment. His hand lingers on mine, and I feel the heat of him through my skin. My breath hitches again, and I know—he knows—that the question hanging between us isn’t about regrets anymore.
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Conrad says, a small, teasing tug at the corner of his lips.
We’re in front of my building now, the familiar brick wall beside us. Conrad leans back against it, and instead of leaning against it next to him like I did last night, I make a bold move. I step closer, close enough to erase the careful inches between us, until I’m standing impossibly near. His legs shift slightly apart, making room for me to slip between them, and his hands find their way to my waist like they’ve been waiting for this.
My heart drums so wildly against my chest I almost wonder if he can hear it. Up until now, every touch has been fleeting—his hand wrapped around mine, the press of his palm against my back, the warm weight of his hand on my thigh. But this feels different. This is the kind of closeness that makes my pulse riot in my chest, the kind that leaves me breathless, caught somewhere between anticipation and surrender. The only moment that comes close was on the ferris wheel.
I think back to this evening, the cabin swaying gently beneath us, the dim lights casting shadows on his face and the almost-kiss that had hovered between us. I remember the way he had tilted his head, searching my face for permission, and the tiny, electrifying nod I gave. It had been so close, a breath away, and yet we had to pull back. And now, standing here, in front of my building, impossibly close again, every memory of that moment hums through me like a live wire.
This time, I realize there will be nothing to stop us from kissing. No distractions, no ferris wheel attendant asking us to leave the cabin. Just the two of us, in an empty street, and our hearts holding everything we’ve kept for each other. I need to kiss him. Need to feel his lips on mine.
Summoning a little reckless courage, I lift my hand and press it to the back of his neck, bringing his face down dangerously close to mine. My slightly overgrown nails catch on the fine hair there, sending a small thrill through me and, I swear, through him too.
“Conrad,” I whisper, our faces so close I can feel the warmth of his breath brushing against my lips.
He hums softly in reply, his fingers tracing lazy circles on the sides of my waist.
“This is the opposite of taking it slow, right?” I murmur, letting my voice dip low as his lips inch closer.
He exhales a quiet, shaky breath. “Fuck, I don’t know.”
And with that, his lips meet mine.
Fireworks.
The kiss is soft, slow, like we’re relearning something we once knew by heart. It doesn’t matter that years have passed; somehow, it feels like we never stopped, like our lips were always waiting to find their way back here. Every brush of his mouth against mine sends a shiver down my spine, each touch a spark igniting a fuse that was lit years ago and never went out.
I feel his heartbeat against my chest, rapid and steady all at once, and mine answers in kind—wild, frantic, and loud. It’s like we’re caught in the same rhythm, like our hearts have finally found each other again after being out of sync for too long.
He pulls back just slightly, enough for our foreheads to touch, breaths mingling in the cool night air. “Belly…” he whispers, my name breaking off in his voice like it’s something sacred, something he’s been holding onto for far too long.
I can’t answer. Words feel too small, too inadequate. All I know is that I don’t want to move, don’t want to lose this moment. My hand drifts lower, slipping to his shoulder, and I feel the firm tension in his muscles, the solidity of him beneath my fingertips.
Before I can even catch a full breath, he draws one of his own—sharp, impatient—and captures my lips again. This kiss is deeper, hungrier, and he turns us with gentle force, pressing me against the familiar brick wall behind me. His body curves into mine, fitting like something inevitable, and I sink into it.
Every regret, every missed chance, every heartbreak seems to dissolve, pressed into the warmth of his mouth, the steady grip of his hands on my waist. His calloused fingers dig in just enough to remind me he’s here, he’s real, he’s not letting go.
The world narrows to this—his mouth, my breath, the quiet thrum of the city around us that feels a million miles away. The universe could crumble and I wouldn’t care. All that matters is us, here, now.
This kiss is nothing like the ones we shared years ago. This kiss feels like a return, like after all the storms and chaos, we’ve finally found our way back home.
I pull back just slightly, resting my forehead against his, our breaths tangling in the space between us. His skin is warm against mine, his breath uneven like he’s holding back more than he’s willing to say.
“You have no idea how badly I’ve been wanting to do that since I saw you at the party,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, the words brushing against my lips as if they’re meant to stay right here, between us.
The flutter in my chest surges, impossible to tame. I grin, a little giddy, my voice soft when I tease, “Simp.”
“I am,” he admits without hesitation, the honesty in his tone disarming me completely. A small smile tugs at his lips before he leans in, pressing a gentle, lingering peck against mine. It’s so tender it makes my knees weak.
For the first time since we met again, I let myself go. I rise up just enough to wrap my arms around him, sliding them across his back, holding him the way I’ve ached to for years. His arms circle mine almost instantly, like he’s been waiting for this, like he’ll never let go. We fit together seamlessly, like two halves of a puzzle piece that had been lost, searching, and finally found again.
I can feel his heartbeat thudding against my chest, strong and steady but too fast to be calm. Mine races just as frantically, like our hearts are locked in their own conversation, matching one another beat for beat.
“Thank you,” I murmur into his ear, the words slipping out before I can stop them. They sound fragile, but I mean them with every part of me—thank you for being here, thank you for this, thank you for still wanting me.
He doesn’t reply. Instead, he presses a kiss to my hair, right where his face rests, a touch so quiet and reverent it feels like its own answer. My throat tightens, and I close my eyes, memorizing the feel of him.
When we finally loosen our hold, neither of us truly lets go. His hand stays at my waist, broad and grounding, while he leans in close, his height casting me in the comfort of his shadow.
I tilt my chin up, tucking my hand beneath his jaw, brushing my thumb along the sharp edge there. His stubble is rough against my skin, but it only makes the moment feel more real, more present. “Don’t move,” I whisper, breathless, afraid that if I blink, I’ll lose this.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that makes me believe him. His eyes are soft, warm, a quiet promise resting there. His thumb traces a slow, deliberate circle against my side, steady and tender, like he’s anchoring me in place.
And just like that, the rest of the world falls away. The city, the cars, the noise—it all blurs into nothing. It’s only us. Him. Me. This moment that feels like the start of something we’ve both been waiting years to find our way back to.
Notes:
So like how much do you guys love me? shower me with love, i DEMAND it.
I hope the slow burn for the kiss played off the way i wanted it to because whew i have been STRESSING.
Let me know what you think of this chapter guys :)) I'd love to know what you loved the most!! It just strokes my ego LMAO (im joking but also not really)
Chapter 9: ix.
Notes:
hii :)) back with a new chapter and ykw!! i enjoyed writing this one SO much!!
enjoy the chapter and let's meet in the end notes (where i get a lil vulnerable please be kind)!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
ix.
The air is thick with New York—humid, unrelenting, alive. As I push my way down the subway steps, the crowd clings to me like static. People weave and dart past, all sharp elbows and quick strides, the smell of cigarettes trailing after them like ghosts that refuse to let go. I fall into the rhythm of it, letting the current carry me until the platform opens up before me.
When the train screeches into the station, I slip inside and manage to snag a free seat beside a woman whose tiny dog wheezes from inside a rhinestone-studded purse. The poor thing snorts like it’s drowning in air, each breath thin and ragged, and I don’t know whether to laugh or pity it. Instead, I tuck my AirPods in, drowning out the noise with something softer, something mine.
The ride won’t be long, but I let myself sink into the hard seat, shoulder pressed to the cool glass. The tunnel outside is a blur of dark concrete and flickering light, an endless vein the train is pulsing through. It’s empty and monotonous, but maybe that’s what I need. A space to think. To breathe. To let myself sift through the clutter of last night.
Last night.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he had whispered into my hair. His voice had been low, steady, a promise threaded into the hum of the city around us.
We stayed in each other’s embrace until the weight of our emotions settled into something quieter. My pulse was still frantic—always frantic with him—but slower than it had been when he kissed me. His hands never left my waist, like he was afraid I might slip away, and the truth was, I didn’t want to let go either. The last time I let go, I hadn’t known it would be for years. For what had felt like forever.
“Would it be, like, totally clingy of me if I said I want to see you tomorrow too?” Conrad’s voice had broken the silence, soft but laced with that crooked kind of hope only he could manage.
I laughed into his shoulder, quiet and shaky. “No, it wouldn’t.” I’d brushed a fallen eyelash from his cheek with my thumb before adding, “But I do have to meet Taylor tomorrow. Dress shopping.”
Conrad had pulled back with a groan, dropping his head dramatically against my shoulder, his lips curved downward in exaggerated defeat. The act was ridiculous, boyish, and it made something in me melt.
“Day after tomorrow, then?” he asked quickly, lifting his head. His eyes were so eager it made my chest tighten. Seeing him like that—wanting me that much—it did something to me I wasn’t ready to name. I nodded almost instantly.
“Can I… can I cook you dinner?” His voice had wavered, like he was nervous about the offer, like it was bigger than just food.
“You… want to cook for me?”
He nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Can I?”
I pretended to think, dragging it out. “Do you even know how to cook anything besides chicken?”
He rolled his eyes and poked at my side until I yelped. “Yes, Isabel. Just give me a yes or no.”
“Yes, Conrad,” I’d said finally, grinning up at him. “I’d love to come over for your unseasoned dinner.”
At that, he leaned down, whispered a single “perfect” against my lips, and kissed me again. This one lingered, neither of us in a hurry to pull away. If the first kiss had been a beginning, this one felt like a promise.
My thoughts slam to a halt when the train doors screech open. I exhale, shoulders loosening as I stand and let myself get carried out with the tide of passengers. Aboveground, the sounds of the city come rushing back in—car horns, snippets of conversation, the clatter of heels on pavement. I push through it, climbing the concrete stairs until the sunlight hits me, sharp and blinding. The familiar green sign reading Chelsea Village rises above the street.
“B!”
The sound of my name cuts through the noise. I whip my head around, and there she is—Taylor, standing on the corner like she owns it, her floral dress fluttering in the hot breeze. She’s right on time, which means she’s probably been waiting a while. Her grin stretches wide when she spots me.
We both break into jogs, meeting halfway and colliding in a hug. Warmth, perfume, and Taylor’s familiar squeeze.
“You okay?” she mumbles into my shoulder when she realizes I’m holding on longer than usual.
“Yeah, just missed you,” I say, my voice muffled against her hair.
We break apart only when a distracted woman nearly plows into us, eyes glued to her phone, the sharp scent of coffee trailing behind her.
“Ah, New York City,” Taylor says dryly, rolling her eyes. “Glad I don’t live here anymore.” She smooths her hair, then loops her arm through mine with practiced ease. “You ready for this?”
I link my arm with hers, grinning. “Hell yeah. I can’t believe we’re going wedding dress shopping.”
“Ah-ah—wedding dress window shopping,” she corrects, wiggling her brows.
“Right. And why aren’t we going for the actual thing?”
“Because,” she says, drawing the word out, “my mom was fully booked today at the salon, and I need to narrow down places before I commit to a dress. This is serious business, Belly.”
“Oh, I know. It’s all I’ve heard about since the engagement.” I bump my hip into hers, and she stumbles just slightly, laughing.
Taylor throws her head back, the sound carrying over the honks and chatter around us. “Listen, I need this to be perfect, okay?”
“I know. And it will be. We’ll make sure it’s everything you dreamed it would be.”
We weave into the flow of people, the city swallowing us up. Taylor points at storefronts as we pass, her excitement bubbling over, and I let myself be pulled along, my arm still looped with hers. After a few blocks of wandering, I glance around, realizing the scenery is starting to blur together.
“Do you even know where we’re going?” I ask.
“Nope!” she chirps, not even pretending otherwise.
Taylor and I are now probably at the seventh store of the day. The sunlight outside has softened into a warm, golden wash that filters through the tall glass windows, casting slanted stripes across polished floors and rows of dresses. My feet ache from walking, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. Taylor’s energy is still running high, like a car running on a never-ending tank of gas.
“Some of these dresses look like they belong at a fucking circus,” she mutters under her breath, her eyes darting from one ruffled monstrosity to another. The silk and lace gleam under the showroom lights, but her unimpressed tone makes me bite back a laugh.
“Better than my prom wedding dress,” I snicker, trailing after her as she moves to another rack. The dresses here smell faintly of starch and expensive perfume, like they’ve been waiting all day for someone worthy to try them on.
Taylor presses her lips together in a thin line, clearly fighting to keep her composure. The last time she let loose in one of these upscale boutiques, we were practically shooed out for “rude behavior.” Store number three. She doesn’t want a repeat performance.
“It wasn’t that bad,” She says innocently.
I shoot her a look.
“Okay, well—it was pretty bad. At least the dress didn’t get used.”
She tilts her head back slightly, and though she tries to suppress it, laughter bubbles in her chest. Mine follows, soft and helpless.
In the past few years, Taylor and I have gotten good at this—turning the mess of that almost-wedding into punchlines. We had one serious conversation about it, months after it all fell apart, and since then it’s been easier to laugh, to shrug at the sheer absurdity of it all.
Our giggles fade only when we notice the saleswoman watching us, her glare sharp enough to cut through chiffon. Taylor clears her throat and quickly refocuses, rifling through the gowns with a new air of composure, though her smirk betrays her.
She takes her time, dragging her fingertips across delicate embroidery, tossing quiet insults at the ones that offend her, and snapping quick, secretive photos of the dresses that pass her inspection. A curated list for the real shopping day, as she calls it. I follow behind, half-distracted by her commentary, half just enjoying being with her, the years between us stretching and folding back in on themselves like they never existed.
By the eighth store, even Taylor admits defeat. “Okay,” she sighs, slipping her phone into her bag with a final click, “I’m starving.” We step back into the open air, the heat of the day tempered now by evening, and walk until we stumble upon a little restaurant tucked between a bookstore and a florist.
Inside, the clamor of the city gives way to warm lighting and the low hum of conversation. We settle into a booth near the window, the table cool under my arms. For the first time all day, I let myself reach into my bag and check my phone.
My lips curve before I even realize it. Five texts. All from Conrad.
Conrad
10:00 — Have fun with Taylor today❤️
10:50 — *attachment*
10:51 — met this dog on a run today, i think i love her now
14:00 — steven showed up at mine just now
Just now — he’s freaking out about the expenses of everything, save me belly
I shake my head and laugh silently at the last text. Just as I’m typing out a reply, a sharp, deliberate cough cuts through the air across from me—the kind that sounds less like clearing a throat and more like ahem, ahem. I don’t even have to look up to know what’s coming. With a sigh, I lock my phone, half a reply stuck mid-sentence.
Taylor is perched across from me, her chin resting on her hands, elbows pressed to the table. Her eyes are stretched wide, her grin so manic that if you stared long enough, you’d start questioning her sanity.
“Taylor,” I drag her name out like a whine and let my head fall back against the cushioned seat.
“No!” she snaps, sitting up straighter. “I have been waiting since the party for an update, and I gave you your space, but I need to be all up in your business right now.” Her narrowed eyes burn into me like she’s trying to extract the truth telepathically.
“Okay, fine! Can we at least order first? God.” I grab the menu and pretend to scan through it, though I sneak a glance over the edge. She’s still staring me down, but eventually gives in and picks hers up too.
We place our order—carbs and cheese, the only cure for the kind of day we’ve had. Taylor also insists on drinks, declaring it a celebration. For what exactly, I have no idea, but I let her have it.
Now there’s no avoiding her. I can feel her waiting, vibrating with curiosity across from me. I lean forward, fingers playing with the napkins in front of me.
“Okay, what do you want to know?”
Taylor inhales sharply, straightening her posture like she’s about to deliver a speech. “Tell me everything. Like literally everything.”
“Right, well—um. You know that talk we had in the bathroom at your party?” She nods eagerly. “I found him on the patio later, and we were just talking, and then he suddenly brought up… some letters.”
Her brows shoot up, and for once Taylor looks dumbfounded, caught completely off guard.
“Letters?” she echoes, flashing a quick smile at the waiter who sets down our drinks before immediately wrapping her lips around her straw.
“Apparently, he wrote me letters.” I tap my nails against my glass, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of the restaurant. “When I was in Paris.”
Taylor nearly chokes. “What? Like—handwritten, stamped, sent through the mail letters?”
I nod. Her eyes widen so much I’m surprised they don’t pop out.
“Belly, what the fuck?” Her voice comes out too loud, cracking at the end. She doesn’t even care about the heads that turn; I’m the one sinking lower into my chair.
“Yep. Oh, and I never received them.” I take a slow sip of my mimosa, the citrus bitterness a small anchor. “He must’ve sent them to the wrong address, or they got lost somewhere along the way.”
“Holy shit.” Taylor twirling her straw against the glass. “I can’t believe Fisher sent you fucking letters. Just when I thought he couldn’t get more pathetic and in love.”
I roll my eyes, but my chest squeezes at the word I’ve tried to ban from my vocabulary. Love.
“He’s not in—whatever. Point is, he looked so disappointed when I told him I never got them.”
Taylor hums thoughtfully, sipping her drink.
I skim over the rest of the details, unwilling to relive every beat of that night when it’s already been playing on loop in my head for days. “Anyway. He asked me to start over. Take it slow this time.”
I busy myself with another sip, dragging it out, letting the silence stretch just to annoy her.
“And?” Taylor presses, eyes glittering.
“And I said yes. So—yeah.”
“Oh! How’s it going then? I mean, it’s obviously not been that long, but still,” Taylor asks, tilting her head in curiosity as she twirls her fork into her pasta. The golden light from the restaurant’s pendant lamps glints against her earrings, the ones Steven gave her last Christmas, and she looks every bit the picture of a girl newly engaged—effervescent, buzzing, but still sharp-eyed when it comes to me.
My heart swells before I even answer, like it’s been waiting for someone to ask me out loud. “Tay, he has changed. Like—a lot. He’s still Conrad, but just… grown. He opens doors for me, waits outside my building until I’m inside safely. He even got me flowers. Twice.”
Taylor’s eyes widen more with every word, her fork slowing until it hangs mid-air.
“Jump on it,” she says flatly, but there’s a glimmer of mischief under the surface.
The scandalized laugh that escapes me comes out too loud, bouncing against the brick walls of the restaurant. I slap my palm against the table like that’ll steady me. “Taylor!”
“What?” She chews on her pasta with exaggerated nonchalance, shrugging. “Steven and I have been together for—God—years, and that man has no shame in farting in the middle of sex. Conrad doing all of that, is insanely hot.”
The waiter passing by does a double-take, his brows shooting up before he hurries off, and I want to sink into the floor. Groaning, I toss my napkin into my lap. “Taylor! We promised—you promised—you’d keep your bedroom talk away from me. I don’t want to hear my brother’s name and sex in the same sentence.” I shudder so hard my shoulders shake, and she cackles, nearly choking on her pasta.
“Okay, fine, fine,” she says once she’s recovered, sipping her mimosa with a smirk tugging at her lips. Then, like a switch flipping, she leans forward, eyes narrowing with sudden interest. “Wait—do you know what flowers he got you?”
I blink, confused by the pivot. “Um—the first time was white daisies. The second time was pink tulips and baby’s breath. Why?”
Taylor leans back in her chair, the corners of her mouth curving up like she’s about to reveal something seismic. “Okay, so I know you’re completely illiterate on floriography, but I’m like, totally into it. And I’m not saying loverboy knew the meanings, but…”
My chest tightens. Just the thought of Conrad going out of his way to pick flowers for me already undoes me—the memory of his awkward smile when he handed me the first bunch, the way his fingers lingered just a second too long when I took them. But the possibility that he knew what they meant? That there was intention behind it? That’s something else entirely, something heavier.
I nod slowly, silently giving her permission. She doesn’t waste a second. Taylor dives for her phone, scrolling furiously, lips moving as she skims whatever notes she’s buried in. Her brows furrow, then her eyes widen, and suddenly she slams the phone down onto the table so hard the silverware rattles.
“Belly.”
I jolt, pulse skipping. “What?”
“Belly.”
Her tone makes my stomach knot. “Tay—you’re making me fucking nervous.”
She leans in, her voice hushed, like she’s about to confess something conspiratorial. “White daisies symbolize purity, innocence… and new beginnings.”
My breath stalls in my chest. New beginnings.
Taylor doesn’t stop, her gaze fixed on mine. “The tulips symbolize affection, caring, happiness. And the baby’s breath? Everlasting love. Unity.”
The restaurant noise seems to dissolve around me—the clinking glasses, the hum of conversation, the soft music floating from overhead speakers. It all fades, replaced by the drumbeat of my heart, uneven and relentless. Each word Taylor speaks lodges itself in my chest, heavy and impossible to ignore.
I picture Conrad standing outside the florist, his hands shoved in his pockets, frowning in concentration as he picked stems out of buckets. The idea that he might’ve known, even partially, what they meant—that he wasn’t just giving me flowers but giving me something he couldn’t say yet—undoes me in a way I can’t put into words.
“Fuck,” I whisper, my voice cracking.
Taylor lets out a low whistle, shaking her head like she can’t even believe it herself. She leans back against her chair, smirking now but still wide-eyed.
“Fuck, indeed.”
“Though, I do want to ask because I think it’s necessary.” Taylor pauses, her fork hovering above her plate. Her tone has shifted — softer, but steady in that way she only gets when she means business. “How will all of this play out? Like, with everyone else?”
I know exactly what she means by everyone else. She mostly means Jeremiah. She doesn’t say his name, but it hangs in the air between us, heavy and unspoken.
The question makes my stomach twist, because if I’m honest with myself, I haven’t let my mind wander too far ahead. Sure, fear existed — always lingering at the edges — but I hadn’t actually sat down and mapped out what this would look like in reality. In the long run. The future I sometimes allow myself to see: Conrad and I together, steady and sure, loving each other the way I always dreamed we could.
But the logistics? The fallout? Jeremiah? That was a door I hadn’t opened yet.
“I— I’m not sure,” I admit, my voice quieter than before, almost lost beneath the hum of the restaurant around us. I sink lower into my seat, as though the cushions could swallow me whole. “I didn’t think that far, I guess.”
Taylor leans back, tipping her head, eyes narrowing in thought. “Babe, I hate to be the one to kill the fun, but… we’re not dumb teenagers anymore. You have to think about this before things start to get too serious.”
The words sting even though I know she doesn’t mean them harshly. My head snaps up, a knee-jerk reaction, the kind that comes when someone pokes at something too raw. At first it feels like anger rising in my chest, but I know it’s not really anger — it’s defense. My walls going up because the one thing I can’t stand is anyone doubting him. Doubting us. Not anymore at least.
“Tay,” I start, my voice trembling more than I want it to, “I can’t let go this time. I can’t. I get it, okay? I get how insanely messed up this all is, but I want to be with him. It’s been five years since I almost got married, and I haven’t been able to move on since then.”
The air between us shifts. Taylor’s expression softens, the sharpness in her eyes dissolving as she reaches across the table, her hand finding mine. Her thumb brushes gently over my knuckles, steady and grounding, like she’s reminding me she’s not here to tear me down, only to hold me steady while I find my balance.
“I know,” she says, and her voice is quieter now, carrying a kind of honesty I can always trust from her. “To be honest, I think we all know. But I guess everyone assumed that you three would move on, find your own people, start fresh lives.” She shrugs, almost helplessly.
I swallow hard. “That’s what I thought too. And Tay— I really tried. I did, okay? My heart just… it can’t seem to forget about Conrad.”
For a moment, silence settles over the table. The clinking of silverware from nearby tables fills the space, muffled laughter from a group in the corner carries over, but between us, there’s just stillness. Taylor’s brows are furrowed, her eyes cast down as though she’s processing everything, weighing it against the years she’s witnessed — my mistakes, my heartbreaks, my stubborn clinging to a boy who has never really left my heart.
Finally, she exhales and looks back at me. “You do realize it’s going to be really messy, right?”
I let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle but true. “When has it not been?”
She quirks a brow at me, unamused. “Is he worth it? Worth the shit that will probably go down?”
“I—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“No, babe, like actually think about it for a second, okay?” she says, tightening her grip on my hand. Her eyes are sharp now, insistent. “I won’t bother you about this after today, but I need you to be sure of what you want to say.”
Her words sink into me like stone dropping into water. Normally, her persistence might irritate me, but I can’t be annoyed right now. She’s right. I can’t afford to live in a fairytale bubble where everything magically falls into place once people know about us.
Is he worth it?
The question reverberates inside me, and suddenly my mind is flooded. Our childhood summers in Cousins, where everything felt golden and endless. Him and I on the beach, the day of our very first kiss, salt clinging to our skin. The fireplace glow, where we crossed that line for the first time and nothing felt more inevitable. Prom night, when everything fell apart in a single, shattering moment. The funeral, where grief carved us raw and we ended up hurting each other instead of holding on. The motel, where he let me go even when it broke us both. The beach again, where he finally confessed what I had always known in my bones. And the kiss on my forehead that haunted me for years, a flame that never dimmed no matter how hard I tried to smother it.
All of it. All at once.
“Yes,” I breathe, the answer slipping out of me with no hesitation, no second thoughts. “He’s worth… everything.”
I don’t explain further. I don’t need to. The conviction in my voice is enough.
Taylor studies me for a beat longer, her lips parting as if she wants to push back, to test the strength of my resolve. But then she exhales, shoulders dropping. Her hand squeezes mine once before she lets go.
“Okay then,” she says softly. “I’m here for you. Always.”
The lump in my throat grows, but I swallow it down, offering her a smile that’s shaky but real. “Love you, Tay.”
“Love you, Cinderbelly.” She leans over the table and drops a quick peck onto my palm, playful again, like the heavy conversation never happened.
The weight between us lightens, and I find myself laughing, wiping at the corners of my eyes before the tears can spill.
And then, with the timing only Taylor could have, she smirks. “No, but really, when are you going to jump on his—”
“Taylor!” I nearly choke on my drink, my face burning as she cackles, unbothered.
By the time I make it back to my apartment, the clock has already crept past six. I hang my keys on the hook and finally check my phone, realizing I never replied to Conrad’s last text. He’d sent it hours ago—something about Steven showing up at his place, freaking out over wedding expenses. The thought of him sitting there, waiting for me to respond, makes guilt tug low in my chest.
I text him back quickly, an apology tucked between a teasing comment about Steven’s dramatics. He replies almost instantly, like he’d been waiting for my text. Before I know it, one message turns into another, until he’s asking if I want to call.
So I do. And just like that, the hours slip away. We talk about everything and nothing—his day with Steven, mine with Taylor, little stories that don’t matter but feel important because they’re ours. His voice fills the quiet of my apartment in a way that feels startlingly easy, like it belongs here.
At some point, my eyelids get too heavy to fight. I fall asleep with the faintest smile on my lips, my phone still beside me, his voice humming low through the line.
The red-brick building rose up against the street like any other in Brooklyn, unassuming from the outside, but the moment Belly stepped inside she noticed the difference. The lobby gleamed faintly under warm lights, polished wood paneling lining the walls, a sharp contrast to her own place in Manhattan that always smelled faintly of takeout and bleach. Conrad had buzzed her in before she could even hesitate at the door, and now she stood in his elevator, watching the digital numbers blink their way toward the eighth floor. Her stomach fluttered with each one.
She’d spent the afternoon deliberately unhurried, letting the process of getting ready stretch into its own kind of ritual. Her hair was pulled half back in a way that felt effortless but not careless, strands left to frame her face. The white top she chose was light and airy, the straps tied in delicate bows that skimmed her shoulders, paired with her favorite jeans—the ones that hugged her in just the right places. She hadn’t been able to decide if tonight was supposed to feel formal or casual, so she landed somewhere in between, hoping it struck the right balance.
The door opened almost before her knuckles had left the wood. Conrad filled the frame, tall and broad, but the first thing her eyes snagged on was the apron tied around his waist. Kiss the Chef, it declared in bold block letters. A laugh slipped out before she could help it. His eyes followed hers, and he rolled them with an expression that was equal parts sheepish and exasperated.
“It was a housewarming gift from Steven,” he explained.
“Good to know he still fucking sucks at giving gifts,” Belly teased, stepping closer. Her mouth curved into a grin. “But, I guess I have to do what the apron says, hm?”
She rose on her toes, pressing a soft, quick kiss against his lips. The hitch in his breath gave him away, and she smiled against him at the way she’d managed to surprise him. When she pulled back, his cheeks—and the tips of his ears—were dusted pink, his lips tugging into a shy smile.
“Hi,” she said, grinning up at him.
“Hi,” he breathed back, the same grin catching on his face. “Fuck—sorry, come in.” He scrambled to the side, suddenly clumsy in his effort to make space for her.
She slipped inside, slipping off her shoes and tucking them neatly into the rack by the door. It gave her a chance to look around, to take in his space. The apartment was bigger than hers but not sprawling—open enough to breathe, decorated enough to feel lived in. She remembered teasing him about their places just the other day, assuming his would be bare walls and hardly any furniture, but she had underestimated him.
Greys and whites dominated, clean and modern, but punctuated with splashes of warmth: a patterned throw across the couch, a framed print hanging above the dining table, the faint smell of something baking in the oven. Her gaze snagged on a small side table near the couch, cluttered with photo frames. Cousins, summers past, Susannah’s bright smile, and one with a girl whose copper-red hair caught the light. Belly guessed—hoped—it was Agnes.
It all fit Conrad in a way that almost startled her. Quiet, deliberate, thoughtful.
“You done inspecting, or do you want the official tour?” he asked, one corner of his mouth lifted in that half-smile she knew too well.
“Nope. You still have to show me your bedroom.”
Her brain caught up with her mouth a beat too late. Heat rose to her cheeks instantly. “That’s not what I—”
But Conrad was already laughing. Not a soft huff, not a stifled chuckle—real, unguarded laughter that bubbled from his chest and filled the room. It was so infectious that Belly found herself laughing too, the embarrassment dissolving in the face of how happy he looked. If she had to embarrass herself to hear that sound again, she would.
“Fuck you,” she managed between her own laughter, shaking her head.
Still grinning, he made his way into the kitchen, the smell of garlic and herbs stronger now. She followed, setting the tote bag she’d carried on the counter. He only noticed it then, brow furrowing.
“What’s this?”
“I got you a gift.” Her smile turned mischievous. “Go on. Open it.”
Suspicion flickered across his face, but he pulled the bag toward him anyway. When he drew out the box, his shoulders dropped, and he muttered, “Oh god.”
Inside was a neat set of spice jars, each labeled, accompanied by a note in her handwriting: So that you don’t have to rely just on salt and pepper anymore x.
“I don’t know whether to thank you or be offended,” he said, glancing at her.
“I think thanking me would be the way to go.”
He crossed the space between them in a few strides, bracing his hands on either side of her against the counter, effectively caging her in. His grin had sharpened into something playful, mischievous. Belly’s breath stilled, certain he was about to kiss her again, her pulse jumping in anticipation. But instead, he leaned down, brushed his lips against the tip of her nose, and whispered, “Thank you, Belly.”
Then, just as quickly, he peeled away, tugging something from the oven with practiced ease, while she remained rooted to the spot, dazed and smiling.
Conrad sets the tray down on the counter, glancing back at her with a spark in his eye, that same spark that always managed to undo her no matter how much time had passed. He wipes his hands on the ridiculous apron, smirk tugging at his lips.
“So, are you ready for the best meal of your life?”
Conrad and Belly sat side by side at his small, round wooden table. The space was cramped, the plates nearly touching in the center, but the closeness felt almost intentional. Conrad had made lasagna—the same lasagna Susannah used to bake three, sometimes four times a summer in Cousins, because she knew how much everyone loved it. It wasn’t exactly the same—no one could replicate Susannah’s food—but it was close enough that, with the first bite, Belly felt herself slipping back into those nights. She could hear them again: the clatter of silverware, laughter spilling across the table, the moms sipping wine and pretending they weren’t tipsy, though everyone knew better.
Conrad had insisted on wine too. He had pulled out a bottle of red he’d been saving, one that looked expensive even before he mentioned it came from Adam. Apparently, it had been part of a “house warming basket,” though Conrad was convinced Adam’s secretary had picked it out and mailed it over without him lifting a finger. Still, it felt like something rare, sipping from glasses that were far too nice for the little apartment, the two of them acting as if they were celebrating.
Their conversation drifted easily, circling everything and nothing at once. They laughed, teased, and bickered, but never for long—every disagreement melting before it could take shape. By the time they finished their food, they were leaning into each other unconsciously, knees brushing, arms brushing. Their lips were tinged red from the wine, their laughter loose with the soft buzz of tipsiness—not drunk, just light and a little fuzzy.
When Conrad tried to clear the table himself, Belly insisted on helping. He argued, but his protests didn’t last long; her stubbornness won out, as it usually did with him. Together, they carried the dishes into the kitchen, bumping shoulders as they worked.
An hour slipped into three. They ended up on the fire escape, half-finished glasses of wine in hand, the night air cool around them. The iron platform was narrow, forcing them close, though neither seemed to mind. If Belly leaned even slightly, she would be in Conrad’s lap. His hand rested against her thigh, not pressing, just there, grazing up and down in an absent rhythm that made her pulse skip.
They picked up the game they had started the other night, trading questions back and forth. These were lighter, though—what places they wanted to travel, their idea of a perfect day if it was their last, whether they’d survive a zombie apocalypse. Belly was the one talking now, explaining in detail how she’d survive—stockpiling food, securing an escape route, planning alliances. She laughed at her own seriousness, but Conrad just watched her, his lips curved into the smallest smile.
She was halfway through describing how she’d fortify a safe house when he leaned in and kissed her, sudden and sure, cutting her off mid-sentence. Her words dissolved against his mouth. For a heartbeat she froze, startled, but then her wineglass wobbled in her hand, nearly slipping, and his arms came around her waist to steady her.
The kiss deepened until—suddenly—something cold and wet seeped through the front of her shirt. They pulled back at the same time, glancing down to see dark red spreading across the white cotton where the glass had tipped and spilled between them.
Belly let out a soft gasp, pulling the fabric away from her skin as Conrad set his own glass aside in a rush. “Shit,” he muttered, reaching instinctively for the stain, then pulling back, uncertain if he should touch her there.
Her shoulders began to shake, laughter bubbling out before she could stop it. He blinked in confusion for a beat, then his own laugh joined hers, warm and unguarded.
“Time to go inside, I think,” Belly managed, still grinning.
They clambered back through the window, Conrad steadying her by the wrist and then, instinctively, offering his hand as she stepped inside. Belly let her fingers slip into his, the touch brief but warm, before pulling away.
Conrad’s eyes dropped to her shirt, seeing it under the lights of his apartment now, his mouth tugging into a sheepish grimace. The spill wasn’t small—it spread almost entirely across her front, deep red soaking into the thin white fabric, the stain blooming in uneven circles. Her stomach felt tacky from the liquid, the cool stickiness clinging to her skin.
“Hold on—” he muttered quickly, already striding out of the room. His footsteps echoed down the narrow hall before fading, and then, a moment later, he returned. A large towel was slung over his arm, and in his hand, bunched into a loose ball, was a T-shirt, assuming it was his.
“You can clean up in the washroom, here’s…” He hesitated as he extended the shirt toward her, something flickering across his face.
The moment landed with more weight than they should have, quiet and unassuming, but enough to settle somewhere beneath her ribs. He didn’t say much else, just nodded toward the short hallway, guiding her until she reached the bathroom door.
Inside, the light was soft and faintly golden, the kind that made the small space feel more intimate than cramped. Belly wet the corner of the towel, pressing it gently against her stomach, swiping away the sticky residue of wine. Each pass of the damp cloth made her grin widen until she was smiling outright, almost absurdly so. Life was unpredictable. Here she was—standing in Conrad’s bathroom, in his apartment, cleaning herself off from his wine that had spilled between them while they kissed.
She slipped the ruined shirt over her head, tugging on the one he’d given her. The fabric was too big, the hem brushing past her hips, and the cotton was still cool from where it had been folded in his drawer. As she pushed her head through the collar, the scent hit her at once. Laundry detergent, sharp and fresh, clung to the fabric, but beneath it was something softer—his cologne, faint but unmistakable.
It transported her instantly. To those nights when she was sixteen, slipping into one of Conrad’s hoodies, feeling like she’d been given the world. She remembered the giddiness, the fluttering pride that came with wearing her first boyfriend’s shirt to bed, how it felt like a secret trophy only she got to hold.
And standing here now, wrapped in his shirt again, she couldn’t help but think—
life has a way of giving you back what you lost.
The night air was mild, the kind that hummed with the faint buzz of summer. After Belly changed, they had agreed to walk off the dinner through the park near Conrad’s building, but somehow, at Belly’s insistence, “walking it off” had turned into stopping for ice cream.
Now, they strolled side by side with paper cups in hand—hers a chaotic mountain of sugar, his an exercise in restraint.
“I can’t believe you’re eating that monstrosity,” Conrad said, his nose scrunching as he stared at Belly’s cup like it personally offended him. A double scoop of cookie dough, drowned in hot fudge, rainbow sprinkles, gummy bears, and maybe every other topping behind the counter.
Belly grinned around her spoon as she carefully tried to excavate a bite without losing any of the toppings. “At least I didn’t get fucking rum and raisin. What are you, eighty?” she shot back, mimicking his expression with an exaggerated scrunch of her own nose.
Conrad held up his cup—one neat scoop of rum and raisin, no toppings, nothing extra. The bare minimum. “Eighty? Have you ever even tried rum and raisin? It is the most elite ice cream flavor.”
“Maybe in retirement facilities,” she muttered.
Her eyes gleamed as she turned to him, already scheming. “You’ll change your mind if you eat mine. Here.”
She scooped a carefully curated bite, balancing cookie dough chunks, fudge, gummy bears, and sprinkles, then held the spoon out toward him like it was a peace offering.
Conrad leaned back, his mouth twisting into open disgust. He caught her wrist midair, keeping the spoon away from his face. “There is no way in fucking hell I am trying this. Belly, this is like diabetes in one bite.”
They had stopped walking without realizing it, planted in the middle of the park’s winding path. A few people passed by, but neither of them moved.
Belly’s mouth fell into a dramatic pout. “Please. I swear you’ll like it.”
“What’ll you give me if I do?” His tone shifted, low and amused, and that smirk appeared—the same one that had unraveled her the first night in Cousins after she turned sixteen. Back then it had made her nerves spark and her words trip over themselves. Now, it hit her just as hard, but the nervousness had been replaced with something steadier, something she wasn’t afraid to lean into.
“Anything you want,” she said, playing along, though her heartbeat ticked up a notch.
His eyes lingered on hers, curious, teasing, a little dangerous. “Anything?”
“Anything,” she confirmed.
Slowly, Conrad guided her wrist closer, until the spoon hovered just beneath his mouth. And then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in and took the bite.
The reaction was immediate. His face contorted into pure disgust, the kind so exaggerated that Belly doubled over, laughing so hard she nearly dropped her own cup.
Belly’s laughter only deepened as she watched Conrad struggle through the bite, his jaw working in slow, miserable circles. She realized it was the gummy bears he was fighting with, their stickiness clinging to his teeth. Every chew looked like an effort, and it was almost comical—this boy who could ace every exam, remained unshaken under pressure, now defeated by chewy candy in ice cream.
When he finally swallowed, his glare found her, flat and unimpressed. “I can’t believe you made me eat that,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly, as if the trauma needed to be nursed.
“What?” Belly laughed, feigning innocence. “You didn’t like it?”
“Belly, I’d rather eat glass.” His delivery was so dry, so unyielding, that it nearly sent her into another fit of giggles.
“You’re crazy,” she chuckled, plucking a gummy bear from the mountain of toppings and popping it into her mouth. The candy stuck slightly to her teeth, but she chewed with satisfaction, like she was proving her point.
Conrad tilted his head, that smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth again. “I remember you promising you’d do anything if I tried yours, hm?”
Before she could argue, he scooped up a perfectly modest spoonful of his rum and raisin and held it out toward her, mimicking the same insistent gesture she had used minutes ago.
Belly froze, eyes widening at the spoon hovering in front of her face. “Conrad. Absolutely fucking not.”
“A promise is a promise, Isabel,” he said lightly, quirking a brow. His voice had that taunting lilt that always made it impossible to tell how serious he was.
She groaned, her entire body protesting as if she were about to walk into a trap. “You’re evil.” But she leaned forward anyway, closing her eyes like bracing for a shot at the doctor’s office, and took the spoon into her mouth.
The cold hit instantly, the flavor following like an assault. Her nose scrunched, her eyes squeezed shut, her entire face pulling tight in revulsion—an uncanny mirror of the look Conrad had worn seconds ago.
When she finally swallowed, she shook her head, her voice muffled with outrage. “God, that was disgusting.”
Quickly, she dug into her own cup, shoveling in a spoonful of cookie dough and fudge, as though it might erase the memory of his bitter, raisin-studded betrayal.
Conrad’s laugh came out loud and boyish, unrestrained in a way she hadn’t heard in years. His shoulders shook as he leaned forward, the sound bubbling out of him until Belly found herself laughing too. The whole thing—the gummy bears, his ice cream, the shared disgust—was too ridiculous not to.
As she caught her breath, her eyes landed on a faint smear of her ice cream at the corner of his mouth. Without thinking, she leaned in and kissed it away. It was short, almost a brush of lips, but enough to stun him. She pulled back to see a rosy flush creeping over his ears, his expression dazed in the sweetest way.
Then, with deliberate slowness, Conrad lifted his spoon and smeared a streak of his own ice cream across his bottom lip, the corner of his mouth tilting into a mischievous smile. His eyes never left hers.
Belly raised a brow, fighting her own grin. “And what makes you think I’ll do it again?”
He shrugged, all casual bravado. “You will.” His gaze held hers with something daring, something playful, and she loved the spark of it.
She leaned up, steadying herself with a hand on his shoulder, and kissed him. His lips curved into a smile against hers, and she felt the faint sweet-biterness of his ice cream on her tongue—the very flavor she’d nearly gagged at earlier. But now? Now it was bearable. More than bearable.
She pulled away, chuckling when he instinctively chased her lips for another taste. “You’re so stupid,” she giggled, poking at his side.
“And yet you kissed me,” he said, smirking, as if he’d just won some unspoken game.
Their bickering carried on as they finished their ice creams, laughter and teasing woven through every step as they walked to the subway station.
Conrad, of course, insisted on driving her back to her apartment. He tried to argue that he liked driving, though Belly was almost certain he meant he liked driving her around. She cut his rambling short the same way he had with her on the fire escape—by kissing him. It was brief, a punctuation mark, but it shut him right up.
Later, curled up in bed, still in Conrad’s T-Shirt, Belly sent a quick text to her mom—can’t wait for the dinner <3 love you—before drifting off with a smile still lingering on her lips.
Notes:
helloo i hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it!
let me know what you think of their dynamic now? after they finally kissed. i'm loving every second of writing them, specially now.
keep the comments coming please! i love to know everyone's thought, it instantly makes my day :) i have not been able to respond to them lately but i am reading them and grinning like a maniac at my screen i promise!
also a lil transparency: lately i have been a bit worried that my writing or the storyline isn't working the way i thought it would? maybe its just me overthinking but i would love love love some constructive criticism if anyone has any! i have always been more of a reader than a writer, so the insecurities are making their way through haha! so anyway, do let me know if there's something that i could possibly work on :)
see you soon in the next chapter<3
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