Zara #2
We make our way to one of the quieter paths that loops the far edge of campus. The pavement’s smooth, the walkways wide, a perfect little circuit. We ride in comfortable silence for a bit, the night air cool against my cheeks.
At one point, I throw a hardflip, the board snapping up and flipping beneath me before I catch it clean and ride out like I didn’t almost donate my ankles to the pavement. Cass whistles under his breath.
“Okay, that was kinda sick.”
“You wanna try?” I ask, already backing up to give him space.
He eyes the trick, then my board. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“Yes,” I say serenely. “But you’ll die hot, so it’s fine.”
He rolls his eyes and sets his board under his feet. I talk him through it, step by step.
“Pop hard, kick your front foot out and through, then get your feet out of the way. Don’t chase it. Let it come back to you.”
He snorts. “That sounded spiritual.”
“It’s skating. Half of it is spiritual. The other half is expensive shoes and poor choices.”
I watch as he goes for it, eyes locked on him.
He pops the tail, front foot snapping out, and for half a second the board actually does what it’s supposed to. It flips between his feet, sharp and fast.
Then Cass leans over it.
The board comes up wrong, too vertical, too quick, and the nose shoots straight toward his face.
“Cass—”
The board taps his chin with a dull thunk. Not enough to actually hurt him, but enough to whip his head back a little.
His eyes go wide, and I absolutely lose it. I don’t even try to be a decent person. Laughter explodes out of me so fast I double over, grabbing my stomach. Tears spring to my eyes as I wheeze, pointing at his chin, completely useless.
He stands there holding his board, looking offended and mildly stunned. “You’re such an asshole,” he grumbles, but there’s no real bite to it.
I try to talk and only wheeze harder. I hold up one finger—hang on, give me a second—still laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
He flips me off with his free hand, which only makes the laughing worse.
I wheeze again, almost falling off my board. “I’m—I’m sorry,” I gasp eventually, wiping under my eyes. “It was just—you should’ve seen your face—”
“Yeah, well, your boyfriend almost died,” he complains, touching his chin like he expects it to be broken.
“Tap of doom,” I whisper, snorting again.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth. I skate the couple feet between us, grab his still-up middle finger, and pull his hand down.
“C’mere.” I tug him closer by the front of his hoodie.
He steps in, boards bumping. I go up on my toes and kiss the spot on his chin where the board hit.
“There,” I murmur. “Battle wound kissed. You’ll live.”
His eyes darken in that way that tells me I’ve just lit a fuse.
“Yeah. But you might not by the time I’m done with you tonight.”
The air between us gets almost fizzier. He leans in like he might kiss me for real, but then my stomach growls loud enough to echo. We both pause and look down at the traitor.
"Wow,” I tell it, patting over my diaphragm. “Rude.”
“You’re hungry?” he asks, even though it’s obvious.
“Starving,” I admit.
He nudges my board with his. “Pizza?”
“You know me so well.”
Our favorite pizza place here is a hole-in-the-wall spot just off campus. Tiny, always a little too warm inside, with mismatched chairs and a bulletin board full of flyers no one reads. The smell of sauce and melted cheese wraps around me the second we walk in.
We order one giant slice each and a drink to share, because we are creatures of habit and also broke. We grab a small table by the window. I kick off my Vans under my chair, tucking one foot up, and take a huge bite as soon as my slice hits the table.
Grease, cheese, sauce. Ah, heaven.
Cass watches me for a second, amusement dancing across his face. “You’re gonna dislocate your jaw.”
“It’d be worth it,” I mumble around the bite.
He eats slower, more controlled. His free hand finds my knee under the table, thumb moving in lazy circles on the bare skin below my shorts. It’s casual enough that anyone glancing over wouldn’t clock it, but my whole body pays attention.
We talk between bites—stupid stuff at first. Which professor gives the worst homework. How his mom texted four heart emojis when he told her we were official now, like we haven’t basically been married for years. How Riley threatened to hide my phone if I kept doomscrolling before bed.
At some point, sauce drips onto my cheek without me noticing.
“Hold still,” Cass says, leaning in enough to make me stutter.
"Huh?”
He swipes his thumb along my cheekbone, wiping the smear of sauce away. The touch is gentle enough that my heart decides to practice for a marathon.
“There.” His thumb lingers for a second too long. “You were about to make a statement.”
“What, that I enjoy my food?” I ask, trying to play it off.
“That you’re a disaster,” he says, voice soft. “My disaster.”
My breath catches for half a second.
I look away, staring at the neon OPEN sign in the window so I don’t cry over pizza. “Okay, relax,” I mutter. “You’re not allowed to be that cute right after smacking yourself with your own skateboard.”
He laughs, full and warm, the sound sliding into my ribs and staying there.
We finish eating, lingering longer than we need to. When we finally dump our plates and head back out, the moon is higher against a sky dotted with stars between the campus lights.
On the way back, we cut through one of the side paths near the science building. There’s a snack cart out here on weekends—a little stand with chips, candy, bottled drinks. No one’s manning it now because everything runs off a little self-checkout tablet.
Cass grabs a beef stick, scans it, pays, and then immediately opens it. I’m about to pick something when a massive gray blur barrels past my peripheral vision.
I turn when I hear Cass make a strangled noise, just in time to see a giant Great Dane trotting off proudly with the beef stick hanging from his mouth.
“Oh my God,” I breathe in a half laugh.
The dog is enormous, except he moves with that dopey, wobbly enthusiasm reserved for animals who think they’re tiny and are so, so wrong.
“Hey!” Cass yells out, stepping forward like he’s about to argue with a creature that’s probably as tall as him on hindlegs. “That’s mine.”
“Samson!” A girl jogs up, breathless, leash in hand. “Samson, no, drop it—”
Samson does not drop it. He flops onto his butt, tail wagging so hard his whole back end wiggles, and then proceeds to crunch into the beef stick like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
The girl winces, reaching down to scratch his head. “I am so sorry,” she says, cheeks flushed. “He’s usually better than this, I swear. He got excited. I can Venmo you or something—”
Cass looks between the dog and his murdered snack, lips pressed together, looking personally betrayed. I’m trying not to laugh, but I’m totally losing.