School was over and Tiana left quickly to run some errands for her mum so I was all by myself, walking out to the school gate.
When I saw Raven's car parked outside the school gates, my heart did a little tap dance it had absolutely no right to do.
I was supposed to take the bus. I expected to take the bus.
But then I got the text:
RAVEN:
You want a ride home or are you enjoying public transport character development?
And I said yes.
Of course I said yes.
Even if I instantly regretted the amount of mental rehearsal I did for what I would say when I got in the car.
Now I stood on the sidewalk, one foot on the curb, clutching my backpack strap like I was about to be judged in a spelling bee.
Raven rolled down the passenger window. "You getting in or just air-gazing?"
I slid into the seat, trying to look chill.
"Didn't know you did chauffeur work," I said.
He pulled away from the curb. "Only for difficult clients."
"Wow. You're really committing to the whole grumpy Uber driver persona."
He smirked. "Your rating is dropping by the second."
The air in the car was cool, music low—some lo-fi instrumental thing that sounded like a coffee shop that charged $9 for toast.
I settled in, watching houses roll by as we slipped into the kind of silence that wasn't awkward… just charged. Like a blanket that had picked up too much static.
He broke it first.
"You still into that weird horror-comedy stuff?"
I blinked. "What, like movies where people die dramatically but there's a raccoon puppet making commentary?"
"Exactly."
"Only on weekends."
He nodded, like that was acceptable.
"I watched something last week you'd probably mock me for," he said. "Something with talking dolls and an existential jellyfish?"
I turned to him. "That's not a movie. That's a cry for help."
"Hey. Don't judge me. It was artistic."
"You watched that on purpose?"
"It had subtitles. It was cultured."
"I've seen toaster instructions with better dialogue."
He actually laughed.
Like, full-body chuckle. No little smirk. No polite exhale.
It caught me off guard so badly I forgot to breathe for a second.
He looked over at me—still grinning—and for a beat, the car felt like a different place. Smaller. Warmer. Like something was sitting in the space between us that neither of us had put there.
"You're funnier than you used to be," he said after a pause.
"Or you're just finally paying attention."
He didn't answer.
And for some reason, that hit harder than any comeback could.
⸻
By the time we got to the house, the sun was low, painting the sky with those moody pink streaks you only get when the universe wants you to feel dramatic.
We got out of the car at the same time. I adjusted my backpack; he grabbed his keys from his pocket.
We walked toward the front door. Side by side. No conversation this time.
Just the sound of our steps on the walkway. His arm swinging loosely. Mine trying not to swing at all.
Then it happened.
We reached the steps.
And our hands—my left, his right—swung just slightly too far.
Brush.
It wasn't on purpose.
It wasn't dramatic.
But it was real.
And this time?
He didn't move away.
Neither did I.
It wasn't a full-on handhold. No interlacing fingers. No romance-novel pause.
Just skin against skin.
A press of knuckles. A pause that felt like an earthquake in disguise.
He glanced down. Not a full look. Just the kind of glance you make when you're checking the stove or the sky.
And I looked at him.
And in that moment, I swear the air between us shifted. Like something clicked into place.
Not loudly.
But definitely.
His hand could've pulled away.
It didn't.
I didn't look down. I didn't move. I just kept walking.
And so did he.
Like we hadn't noticed.
But we both had.
I could feel it in the quiet.
__________
The rest of the evening went exactly like it shouldn't have: quiet, ordinary, absolutely nothing happening.
And that was the problem.
Because after that brush—that stupid, simple, thunderstorm of a brush—I couldn't hear the normal things anymore.
Every sound was too loud. Every silence? Even louder.
Aunt Fiona had made rice and some creamy, garlicky chicken thing that would've been my comfort food on any other night, but all I could do was stare at it while the world muted around me.
Raven sat across the table, hair still damp from a quick shower, sleeves pushed to his elbows like a personal attack. He looked like he belonged in this house again—easily, quietly. Like no time had passed.
Except it had.
Four years. A whole universe of change.
And yet there he was.
Fork in hand.
Wrist resting on the edge of the plate.
Occasionally glancing up—at me.
Not every second. Not dramatically. But just enough that I noticed.
Jayden was ranting about a video game mission that involved dragons and betrayal and something called "crimson rage mode," while Aunt Fiona nodded patiently and Uncle Dave kept making terrible puns no one appreciated but him.
And I was silent.
Too aware of how Raven's voice sounded when he said simple things like, "Can you pass the salt?" or "Yeah, I saw that movie."
Too aware of the fact that every time his gaze passed mine, my pulse jumped like it had been waiting for that exact moment.
I didn't know what I wanted him to say.
Or if I even wanted him to say anything.
But I did know that I couldn't sit through dinner pretending I wasn't aware of every molecule in his orbit.
So I cracked.
"I'm just saying," I said, pushing my rice around like it offended me, "if the apocalypse ever comes, I hope it's a glitter-based one. At least then we'd go out fabulously."
Everyone blinked at me.
Jayden paused mid-chew. "What?"
Aunt Fiona smiled, clearly used to my non sequiturs. "And what brought that on?"
"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "Just trying to lighten the existential dread."
Uncle Dave raised his glass. "To sparkly doom."
And then—Raven laughed.
Not a chuckle.
Not a polite nose-exhale.
A real laugh.
Sharp. Sudden. Undeniable.
It wasn't loud, but it was there. Full and surprised and not at all restrained.
I looked up—and he was already looking at me.
His smile hadn't faded yet.
And for a second… the whole table blurred out. Like the lighting dimmed around them, and the only thing still in high definition was his face.
That smile.
That laugh.
That look.
I didn't return the smile.
I couldn't.
Because something inside me was twisting into a shape I didn't recognize. Like the floor had tilted an inch. Like I wasn't sitting in a house with the same furniture anymore.
He looked away first.
Went back to eating.
No one else seemed to notice.
But I did.
⸻
After dinner, Jayden vanished into his room. Uncle Dave turned on the TV. Aunt Fiona cleaned up, humming some 80s song she swore was cool in her day.
I dried the dishes beside her, not speaking, not thinking—just floating.
And then, without really deciding to, I walked upstairs.
Stopped halfway.
Stood in the hallway, my socks making no sound on the hardwood.
His room was on the left.
Door slightly cracked.
Light on.
He was in there.
I could hear soft movement. Papers shifting. Maybe music from his laptop. A low bass beat I didn't recognize.
I stared at the door like it owed me an answer.
My hand lifted.
Just a little.
Ready to knock.
Not for anything big.
Not to say anything.
Just… knock.
Just to see.
But I didn't.
I stood there, hand frozen in midair, like a girl in a story who's about to choose the next chapter—and can't decide if she wants a plot twist or not.
Because what if he opened the door?
What if he didn't?
What if I asked something without asking, and he answered with a look I couldn't take?
I lowered my hand.
Stepped back.
The floor creaked.
I backed up slowly, quietly, until I was in my room again, door shut behind me, lights off.
Laying in bed, I stared at the ceiling, breathing too hard for someone who'd done nothing but think all day.
Maybe it was nothing.
Just a laugh.
Just a brush of hands.
Just a look.
Maybe.
But I couldn't stop asking:
What if it wasn't?