Chapter 6
Eric
The rooftop patio is better than advertised.
String lights loop overhead, not quite bright enough to beat the soft gold and pink light from the sunset.
A wood-fired oven flares at the far end, and the scent of garlic makes my stomach growl.
Tables are scattered far enough apart that it feels private, even with the crowd.
It’s mostly college-aged, though there are a few older couples mixed in.
One long table in the corner is full of grad students, all arguing quietly over some textbooks.
Dmitri’s hand lands gently on the small of my back and steers me toward a small table in the corner. It’s against the railing with a gorgeous view of the campus lights starting to flicker on below. Dmitri starts to sink into the chair facing away from the sunset, but I stop him.
“Always so self-sacrificing,” I tease as I grab his arm and force him into the seat with the better view, then drag my chair around so we’re side by side instead.
“Look at you with all your wise ideas.”
“Don’t be jealous because you didn’t think of it first,” I say with a raised brow. “I’m full of great ideas.”
“You’re full of something, alright,” he mutters, then passes me a menu. Our knees brush under the table. I knock mine against his, and his grin finally slips free.
“Garlic knots first,” I say, already scanning the appetizer section. “You promised they’d be killer.”
“No, no,” he says with a laugh. “The reviews said they were killer. Don’t blame me if they’re only decent.”
“Blame is already assigned.” I nudge his foot with mine. “You’re on probation until I taste them.”
He snorts, but his mouth quirks up. “Harsh critic tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“Yeah, fair. You’re a harsh critic every night.”
“I have standards, Dmitri. It’s not a crime.”
He shakes his head as he pulls the menu closer, studying the pizza options like he’s actually reading them.
No matter where we go, he orders the same thing.
He’s steady like that, choosing something he enjoys and never straying from it, while I’ll order one of everything on the menu just to try a bite.
He’s control and I’m chaos, but it’s always worked.
Dmitri’s hair is messy from the breeze, and the fading light makes his eyes look darker. His lips purse the way they do when he’s thinking, carving that dimple deep in his cheek. It steals my attention for a moment, but I swallow and force my gaze back to the menu before he catches me staring.
We order knots, an assortment of slices for me, and Dmitri’s predictable white pizza. I toss in two beers at the last second, mostly because we both turned twenty-one recently and it’s still a novelty.
When the server leaves, Dmitri tilts his head toward me. “You know I don’t drink much.”
“We’ve been able to order a beer for less than two months, man. No one else anywhere on the planet would turn down the chance,” I counter with an eye-roll. “It’s a celebratory drink. You won’t disappoint me by skipping it.”
“How do you know?”
I roll my eyes again, making sure he sees. “Because you never disappoint me.”
Something flickers in his expression before he smooths it away. “How are those sessions with the voice coach treating you? Still hearing Dr. Ellis in your nightmares?”
“She made me do that stupid siren exercise for twenty minutes straight,” I say with a groan, “and now my throat feels like I gargled gravel. She kept saying ‘support, Eric, support,’ like I’m a fucking collapsing building.”
He chuckles. “She probably remembers that time we got paired up for a duo and you tried to belt that high G without warming up.”
“It was two years ago!” I argue.
“And you sounded like a cat in a blender.”
I poke his side. “Listen, someone who can’t sing if his life depended on it isn’t allowed to critique. That was one time, and I was sick. And you didn’t help when you laughed so hard you cried.”
Dmitri’s smile turns magnificent. “I’d never seen someone blush so much. Also, don’t forget that you blamed my keyboard for being out of tune.”
“It was out of tune.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” he says as he takes a sip of water, eyes glinting. “You know you love when she pushes you. Makes you feel alive or whatever dramatic shit you say when you’re feeling poetic.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide the grin. “Fine. Maybe. But only because it means I get to complain to you afterward and you pretend to care.”
“Of course I care.” His voice dips into something softer. “You know I do.”
My chest tightens.
I know he does. That’s the problem.
I shift closer without thinking, our shoulders almost touching now. The table’s small, and it’s easy to blame the space for why I’m so near. My knee presses deliberately against his under the table, and he doesn’t move away.
We both startle when the garlic knots arrive. The server sets them down, steaming and glistening with butter and herbs, then drops two sweating, cold beers in front of us. After a quick check-in, she leaves.
I tear a knot in half and hold it out to him. “First bite. Safety test.”
“You know,” he says with a laugh, “at first, I thought you were just being sweet by giving me the first bite, but now I’m hearing that I’m your sacrificial lamb in case they’re poisoned.”
“Age before beauty,” I tease.
“Your birthday is literally only a few weeks after mine,” he argues, then pauses. “Wait. Are you saying you’re prettier than me?”
I laugh and shake the piece of bread at him. “Stop stalling by stating the obvious. I’m hungry!”
Dmitri’s eyes don’t leave mine as he leans forward and takes the bite from my fingers with his teeth. Something low in my belly swoops as I watch his lips close around the bite.
“Verdict?” I ask, my voice suddenly breathy.
“Delicious, though I don’t have an opinion about the poison yet.”
“Well, you’re still alive,” I manage to say, keeping my voice light despite my pulse thudding too loud in my ears. “Though there’s time, I guess, depending on what kind they used.”
He sits back in his seat as he grabs a knot for himself. “Two questions—who are they, and why are they poisoning you, again?”
The space between us allows me to breathe normally again, and I gesture around the patio. “Well, we don’t know that they’re poisoning me, but one can never be too careful.”
“Noted.” He licks a bit of garlic butter off his thumb, and I have to look away or I’ll do something stupid like stare at his mouth all night.
We relax into our usual comfortable conversation as we eat. We complain about classes, gossip about our mutual friend group, and talk about the little things that always feel so important with him. Banter flows easily, like always, but tonight every tease lands heavier.
I keep finding excuses to touch him. My arm brushes his when I show him something on my phone, my hand rests on the back of his chair, and my fingers graze his shoulder blade when I laugh. Each time, something terrifyingly new and achingly familiar curls low in my gut.
Friendship, I tell myself.
Just friendship.
We’ve always been touchy with one another, and he’s always let me get close. But the way my skin buzzes when our thighs press together under the table, the way I catch myself watching his throat move when he swallows… that doesn’t feel like just friends. Not anymore.
Or maybe it never has, and I’ve been too chickenshit to name it.
Why does this scare me? Dmitri’s my best friend. The one person who gets me without trying. If this is attraction, why does admitting it feel like stepping off a cliff? Why does it feel like something I can never take back?
Dmitri has always been open and comfortable with his sexuality, but just the thought of this what-if in my head has me spiraling. The idea of messing it up, of losing what we have because I can’t sort my own head, keeps me frozen.
Dinner comes and gives me somewhere to focus my jittery attention. After he finishes his first slice, I hold another piece toward him. “Try this one. Extra basil. You’ll hate it because you’re a heathen who doesn’t appreciate garnish.”
“I appreciate garnish when it’s not trying to impersonate a salad,” he corrects, then takes a bite anyway, chews, and nods. “Okay. Not bad.”
“High praise.” I grin, leaning in so our faces are closer. “Say it. Say I’m right.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Not what I asked for.” My voice drops. “Come on. Give me the win.”
He meets my eyes, amusement flickering through his. “You act like I’ll always just give you whatever you want.”
“Prove me wrong then,” I taunt.
A slow grin spreads across his lips, and he gives his head a small shake. “Fine. You’re right. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” I whisper, but instead of pulling back, I linger in his space. For a second the rooftop noise fades, and it’s just us, the sunset bleeding out around us, and his breath close enough I can feel it.
A burst of loud laughter comes from the door. My eyes swing over his shoulder to a group of frat guys spilling into the space like cattle released from a chute. They’re already a few beers deep as they charge toward an open table.
I jerk back instinctively, chair scraping as I put space between us with my heart slamming against my ribs. Dmitri’s expression flickers. Surprise first, then something quieter that feels like disappointment. He looks down at his plate and picks at the crust.
Guilt hits me in a wave of nausea.
I did that, and I hate it.
My brain registered the new faces as a threat, and some old reflex kicked in.
I pulled away like we’d been doing something wrong, like being close to him is something I have to hide.
The worst part is I don’t even know why it feels wrong.
I’m not ashamed of him—I could never be ashamed of Dmitri—but the idea of someone seeing us like that scares me in a way I can’t explain.
It’s like there’s a part of me still stuck back home, hearing the things others never said out loud but made sure were understood anyway. To be different was to raise questions, and right now, I don’t have any answers.
Dmitri’s eyes lift to mine, and for a moment I’m paralyzed by the hurt in them.
I don’t know what the fuck to say, and before I can figure it out, one of the frat guys notices us and walks over.
It breaks the stalemate, and Dmitri’s face smooths back into a careful neutral as I turn to see Jake waving.
He’s tall, broad, and blond, with Kappa Sigma letters plastered on everything he can fit them on.
We played football together my first semester before I dropped the team.
“Eric! And Dmitri—right? What’s up, man? Good to see you guys.”
I force a smile. “Hey, Jake. Yeah, we’re just checking out these world-famous garlic knots.”
“Same. This place is solid. I think we’ve come once a week since it opened. First time up here?” He glances at Dmitri, including him in the conversation easily. We nod and make small talk until the server approaches his table, and the rest of his group starts nagging him to come back.
He laughs and flips them off, then shrugs at us. “You both should hit our spring fling next weekend. End of break, big party at the house. Lots of music, drinks, hot chicks… the works. We’ve got a killer setup this year.”
Dmitri nods, his smile guarded. “Sounds fun. We’ll try to make it.”
“Cool, yeah. Text me if you need the details. You still got my number, Eric?”
“Yep. Appreciate the invite.”
He wanders away, leaving me and Dmitri alone again, but I’m still unsettled. I glance over at their table, where Jake crashes into one of his buddies’ laps as they wrestle and laugh. Guilt hits me hard again.
They didn’t bat an eye at us being so close. So why did I?
I stare at my half-eaten slice, appetite gone.
“You okay?” Dmitri asks carefully.
Another rush of shame hits me, because he’s the one who’s hurt, but he’s still the one checking in on me first. “Yeah,” I lie. “Just… loud.”
He nods, but the warmth from earlier is dimmed, and I know it’s my fault. We finish eating in quieter bursts, talking about the food and the view, but nothing deep. When the check comes, Dmitri grabs it before I can object, paying so fast that I wonder if he’s in a hurry to get away from me.
We head down the stairs and out into the cooling night, and walk back to campus under the buzz of the streetlights. Our shoulders brush every few steps, but Dmitri’s stance is rigid.
I want to say something.
That I’m sorry for pulling away.
That I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.
That the thought of him thinking I was ashamed makes me want to puke.
But the words stick in my throat, and I can’t find a way to force them out. Instead, as we near the dorms, I glance at him, stoic and thoughtful in step beside me. “Spring break’s next week,” I say cautiously. “Got any plans?”
He glances at me, but it doesn’t linger. “Not really. I’ll probably just head home to see family.”
“Really?” I deadpan. “Every time your dad calls, you have a stroke, but you’re going to spend your free week with them?”
“Well, what else would I do?” he asks, obviously hedging.
I grin easier and bump him with my shoulder.
“There’s a big landscaping project I have to be here for mid-week, so I don’t have time for a trip home.
If you’re willing to hang around, maybe we could do something?
Like a day trip or whatever.” I hesitate, watching his expression soften.
“Maybe I could make up for being an idiot tonight?”
He stops under a streetlamp and turns to face me, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “You’re always an idiot.”
“True.” I reach over and squeeze his arm gently. “But yeah. Think about it?”
“I’d rather be with you than them any day,” he responds easily. “You just tell me where to show up, and I’ll be there.” He hesitates, like he might say more, then shakes his head as if rattling a thought loose.
This is the part of the night he always leaves me—out here in the commons, nowhere close to my building. He’s always done it this way, like he doesn’t want to know where I live.
“Night, Eric. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? We’ll talk more then.”
“Yeah, okay. Night, D.”
I watch him go until he’s out of sight, chest tight with everything I didn’t say.
I turn toward my building, replaying the rooftop in my head. Remembering the way he leaned into my touch, and the disappointment when I flinched away. I start turning over ideas. A hike somewhere quiet, maybe, or tickets to that indie art show downtown. Something just us, no crowds.
Something to show him I’m trying to figure this out.