Chapter Eight
Do you remember our first kiss? How everything around us blurred, and it felt like the world had pressed pause just for that moment. I’ve never forgotten the way it made me feel—both terrified and completely, impossibly alive.
Still here, Jack
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After the taco truck at Pike Place, Issaky started talking more—if that was even possible.
It wasn’t all at once. Not a sudden personality shift that made him feel like a different person. It was more like a door he’d always had cracked open finally swinging a few inches wider, just enough for things to slip through.
At first, it was small stuff. He commented on the weather while Ellis punched in PLU codes.
He asked Clyde a question and then included Ellis in the answer.
He lingered a little longer by the counter instead of disappearing into the back office right away.
When he brought Ellis a strawberry spritzer—still every time, still without asking—he talked about where he’d stopped for it, or what the barista had said, or how the lid had almost popped off when he grabbed it.
Ellis noticed because he always noticed when patterns changed.
The taco truck itself had been… fine. Better than fine, maybe.
It had been noisy and crowded and smelled like grease and hot metal and citrus, but Issaky had stayed close without hovering.
He angled his body so he was always just inside Ellis's peripheral vision and talked him through what they were ordering like it was a shared project instead of a decision Ellis had to make alone.
Afterward, something between them loosened. It didn’t feel like flirting at first—more like permission. Permission to get to know one another.
The first thing Ellis learned was Issaky’s favorite color.
They were both leaning against the counter one afternoon, the store slow and quiet in that late-day lull where sunlight slanted through the front windows and turned dust into glitter.
Clyde was in the back on a call. Issaky traced the edge of a record sleeve with his thumb, not really looking at it.
“I like green,” he said.
Ellis blinked. “What?”
Issaky smiled slightly, like he knew he’d dropped the comment sideways into the space between them. “You asked me once. A while ago. Favorite color.”
“I did?”
“Mm-hmm. You were reorganizing the jazz section and got frustrated because the spines didn’t line up.”
That sounded accurate.
“You said people always say blue or black,” Issaky continued, “and that it was statistically boring.”
Ellis huffed despite himself. “So?”
“So mine’s green. But not neon. Like… moss. Or sea glass.”
Ellis nodded, filing it away. “That makes sense.”
Issaky tilted his head. “It does?”
“Yeah. It suits you.”
Something in Issaky’s expression softened, like Ellis had brushed a thumb over a bruise and instead of hurting, it helped.
After that, Issaky told him his favorite food.
They were closing up, the metal grate halfway down over the front door, when Issaky said, “I really like soup.”
Ellis paused mid-count of the register. “Soup?”
“Yeah. All kinds. But especially the ones you eat with a spoon that’s too big.” He mimed it, exaggerated and earnest. “Like you have to tilt your head weird.”
Ellis snorted before he could stop himself.
“It’s comforting,” Issaky added. “Predictable. Warm. You can eat it slowly.”
“That makes sense too,” Ellis said. And it did. Issaky—despite the gold buttons and expensive jackets—felt like the kind of person who would wear a big green sweater while eating soup.
Issaky smiled again. That was happening more often, and Ellis found he didn’t mind at all.
Issaky told him he’d grown up in Tacoma on a day when rain hammered the windows hard enough to sound like static. A thunderstorm rolled through, and they’d seen maybe three customers all day.
They were alone in the store, lights low, records casting long shadows that made the place feel more like a memory than a building. Clyde had a doctor appointment and had taken the day off.
Ellis was alphabetizing returns when Issaky said, “I didn’t grow up here, you know.”
Ellis glanced over. “No? Like out of state?”
“No, Tacoma.” Issaky shrugged. “Moved up here after college.”
Ellis waited. Issaky had taught him—without ever saying it—that silence didn’t need to be filled with panic or questions.
“It was quieter there,” Issaky continued. “At least my neighborhood. Just… less layered. Fewer overlapping car horns and men shouting outside bars.”
Ellis understood that intimately.
“My mom used to take me for ice cream when I was little,” Issaky said. “There was this place near Ruston Way. Mint-chip was my favorite.”
“Really?” Ellis asked, somehow surprised and not surprised at all.
“Yeah. Still is.” Issaky smiled, but this one was more inward. “It reminds me of home. Cold and sharp and sweet at the same time.”
Ellis pictured it without trying: a younger Issaky, smaller, standing near the Sound with green ice cream melting down his wrist.
“I like vanilla,” Ellis said, because it felt right to offer something back. “But only the kind with actual bean flecks.”
Issaky nodded seriously. “That matters.”
By the end of the week, Ellis knew how Issaky took his coffee (light roast, oat milk, no sweetener), what music he listened to when he needed to focus (instrumental—usually piano or strings), and that he hated socks that were even slightly damp from the rain.
It wasn’t intentional. Ellis had always memorized patterns and routines. But Issaky made him enjoy it.
Ellis started coming into work excited not just for the store and its familiarity, but for Issaky—bright-eyed, carrying a strawberry spritzer Ellis suspected he’d never get tired of.
In return, Issaky learned that Ellis liked his routines uninterrupted, preferred the same lunch three days in a row, and that fluorescent lights made his teeth ache if he stayed under them too long.
It felt… easy.
Not effortless. Easy in the way carrying something heavy felt easier when someone else took one side without making a big deal out of it. And that's what Issaky felt like.
The night Issaky asked him out, it happened so casually Ellis almost missed it.
They were standing outside the store after closing, the street quiet, the city settling into that low hum that never fully stopped. Rae—Dolphin Man—paced across Fifth Street, ranting about government spyware. Ellis watched him fondly. Rae was real. Honest in what he believed.
Issaky finished locking up and turned to Ellis, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.
“There’s an art fair downtown this weekend,” Issaky said.
“Yeah?” Ellis replied, already bracing without knowing why.
“I was thinking… maybe we could go together.”
Ellis's chest tightened. Together did things to him. So did downtown. So did the art fair.
“There are a lot of people,” Ellis said carefully. “And noise.”
“I know,” Issaky said immediately. “It can get busy.”
“I don’t always do well with that.”
“I know that too.”
Ellis looked at him. Issaky wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t performing reassurance.
“We could leave,” Issaky said. “Anytime. Even if we only walk through one booth. That’s okay.”
Ellis's throat thickened. “You wouldn’t be mad?”
“No,” Issaky said gently. “Ellis, I wouldn’t be disappointed either.”
That mattered more than anything.
“Okay,” Ellis said before he could overthink it. “We can try.”
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The art fair was loud.
Not immediately overwhelming, but layered. Music drifting from somewhere unseen. Voices overlapping. The smell of fried dough, paint, sunscreen. Ellis's shoulders crept up toward his ears.
Issaky noticed immediately and if Ellis hadn't been so overwhelmed, he’d have found it endearing. Issaky didn’t comment. He just slowed his pace to match Ellis's and stayed on his left, where Ellis could track him without turning his head.
Issaky looked good—more relaxed than usual. A fitted white T-shirt, loose black jeans, Converse Ellis had never seen before. He still wore his expensive watch and chain, but he looked more human. Less like a business mannequin.
They browsed ceramics. Prints. A booth selling bookmarks shaped like pressed flowers. Ellis focused on textures and colors instead of faces.
A painting stopped him. Small. Pale wood frame. A record player on a windowsill, rain streaking the glass behind it. The room was empty but not lonely.
Issaky noticed. “You like it.”
“Yes,” Ellis said too fast. “I mean—I think so.”
Issaky smiled and paid without comment. Ellis panicked briefly—money, obligation—but Issaky handed him the painting with a soft expression.
“I wanted you to have it,” Issaky said. “It felt like you.”
Something shifted in Ellis's chest, slow and seismic. All he could do was thank him.
By the wood carving booth, Ellis's senses overloaded. His skin felt hot. His shirt felt too tight. His ears rang.
Issaky noticed before Ellis had to say anything and he took Ellis's hand—gentle, unannounced—and guided him toward the exit and to his obnoxiously red car.
To be seen is to be loved. Clyde’s voice echoed in Ellis's head and he tried his hardest not to think about it.
The drive home was quiet in a good way. The reflective way. When Issaky dropped him off, the streetlamp cast everything in a forgiving glow.
“I had a good time,” Issaky said.
“So did I,” Ellis replied, surprised by how true it felt.
Ellis watched as Issaky offered one last smile before getting into his car and driving down the dark street.
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Their second date was on a Tuesday, which Ellis appreciated more than he would admit. Weekends carried expectations. Tuesdays didn’t.
Issaky had arranged the day off through Clyde and suggested coffee. Not a café-café. “No blenders.”