33
Hannah
The problem with agreeing to go on a date with Ethan Cross is that I spend the entire afternoon trying to convince myself it is, in fact, a date.
Not a coffee meeting. Not a study session. Not two students comparing notes while Professor Hale ruins our collective will to live from afar.
A date.
Ethan had texted this morning: *Dinner tonight?
No textbooks this time.* It was very clearly date language.
I had stared at the screen for a full minute, waiting for the fireworks.
They came, eventually—kind of. A little sparkler, maybe.
One of those tiny birthday-cake ones that fizzles prettily but burns your finger if you hold it wrong.
By six o'clock, my closet has officially betrayed me. Sweaters are draped over my desk chair, jeans are strewn across my bed, and one skirt is on the floor because Ella threw it there after declaring it “too trying but not trying enough,” which made no sense until the exact second she said it.
I stand in front of the mirror wearing a dark green sweater, black jeans, and ankle boots. Ella sits behind me on the bed with Gerald in her lap. She has taken emotional custody of the duck, and I’ve decided not to fight her for it.
“You look cute,” she says, propping Gerald’s helmet up.
I smooth the hem of my sweater. “Cute enough?”
“For Ethan? Yes.” She tilts her head. “You also look like you’re dressing for someone you’re trying to like the way you used to.”
My stomach tightens. “I do like him.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t. I said the way you *used* to.”
I look back at the mirror because my reflection is less annoying than Ella’s intuition. This feels like standing in front of a door I spent months trying to unlock, only to realize I’m not sure what room is on the other side anymore.
“The fake dating is over now,” I say, mostly to the mirror. “This is good.”
My phone buzzes on the desk. I move too fast, and Ella’s eyebrows shoot up. It’s Nate.
**Nate:** *Mason just asked if ducks can get concussions. Gerald is causing locker room discourse.*
My mouth twitches. I type back: *Gerald wears a helmet for a reason.*
**Nate:** *I hate that you have an answer.*
I smile, then remember I’m supposed to be getting ready for a date. The smile fades into something smaller, tighter.
**Nate:** *Have fun tonight.*
My fingers still. He knows. Of course he knows. The message is polite. Respectful. Exactly what it should be between two people who just wrote a list of rules to keep their lives from imploding.
Another buzz. This one is Ethan: *Outside your dorm. No rush.*
My stomach gives a genuine flip. *See?* I tell myself. *Spark.* “Okay,” I tell Ella, grabbing my jacket. “I’m going.”
“Remember,” she calls out as I head for the door, “you don’t have to decide your entire life over dinner. And if he’s a bad kisser, I expect a full report.”
Ethan is waiting outside in a navy sweater and a dark jacket, hands in his pockets. He looks clean, polished, and easy. A month ago, I would have tripped over my own feet. Tonight, I only almost trip. Progress.
“Hey,” he says, his face brightening. “You look nice.”
“Thank you. You too.”
We walk toward downtown, side by side. He doesn't offer his hand. I tell myself that’s fine; it’s a first date. Not every guy reaches for you as if he has a personal contract with your pulse. Not every guy is Nate.
*No,* I think firmly. *No comparing.* The restaurant is a small Thai place, warm and lit with amber string lights. Ethan gets the door for me and waits for me to sit first. He’s a gentleman. He’s attentive. He asks about my classes and my family, and he actually listens to the answers.
“You’d be good at sports rehab,” he says midway through our entrees. “You’re organized, but not cold. It’s a good combination.”
The compliment feels observant. I smile. “Thanks.”
“Maybe you should practice taking compliments,” he teases, his smile turning a little more flirtatious.
*Practice.* That word has teeth now.
Dinner is easy. That’s the word I keep coming back to. Ethan is easy to talk to. He is kind. He looks at me with clear interest. When we leave, he buys me a hot chocolate for the walk back.
“Next time,” he says when I reach for my wallet.
*Next time.* A few weeks ago, I would have melted. Tonight, I just nod and smile. It’s a genuine smile, but it feels quiet.
When we reach the steps of my dorm, the air is cold and the path is empty. Ethan stops, turning to face me. This is the moment—the suspended question of an end-of-date pause.
“I had fun tonight,” he says, stepping slightly closer.
“Me too.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Can I kiss you?”
I appreciate the question. I’m used to it now—the pause, the door handle being on my side. I nod. “Yes.”
He leans in. It is a gentle kiss. Very gentle. His hand rests lightly on my elbow, and his mouth is warm and careful. He smells like coffee and rain.
I kiss him back. I close my eyes and try to stay in the moment. It isn't bad. It isn't awkward. It is... nice. His lips move against mine, and I wait for my body to wake up, to lean in, to chase the sensation the way I do with Nate.
It doesn't. Not fully. There’s a flutter, but it stays near the surface.
Ethan pulls back, smiling. He looks pleased, maybe a little relieved. “That okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. And it was. It was a perfectly good kiss.
He brushes his thumb against my elbow and lets go. “I’ll text you?”
“Yeah. Goodnight, Ethan.”
I watch him walk away, hot chocolate cooling in my hands. I should feel triumphant. I should feel like the girl in the movie who finally gets the guy. Instead, I just feel quiet.
Ella is out when I get upstairs, but Gerald is sitting on my desk, staring at me with painted-on judgment. I sit on my bed in the lamplight and pull out my phone.
**Ethan:** *Had a really good time tonight :) And thanks for letting me kiss you.*
I type back a sweet response, but my chest feels tight. My phone buzzes again. Nate.
**Nate:** *Back from dinner?*
**Hannah:** *Yes. Back at dorm.*
**Nate:** *How was it?*
I hover over the keyboard. I can't say *nice*. I can't say *good*. I type: *It went well.*
**Nate:** *Good. He ask you out again?*
**Hannah:** *Kind of. He said he’ll text.*
**Nate:** *Okay.*
I hate *okay*. I hate it specifically from him. I toss the phone onto the bed, then immediately pick it back up.
**Hannah:** *He kissed me.*
I don't know why I send it. Maybe because after last night, hiding it feels like a lie. The dots don't appear for a long time.
**Nate:** *You okay?*
Not *Was it good?* Not *Do you like him?* Just... *You okay?*
My chest folds in on itself. I hate that he always knows the right question.
**Hannah:** *Yes. It was nice. It was different.*
**Nate:** *Different bad?*
**Hannah:** *No. Just different.*
**Nate:** *Okay. No decisions tonight. You need to hear it a lot.*
A shaky laugh escapes me.
**Hannah:** *Bossy.*
**Nate:** *Consistent.*
**Hannah:** *Goodnight, Nate.*
**Nate:** *Goodnight, Hannah Reed.*
I lie back and stare at the ceiling. Ethan kissed me tonight. I wanted him to, and I said yes. It was sweet and good and nice. All the things that should be enough.
But as I close my eyes, I don't replay the way Ethan held my elbow. I don't replay the gentleness of his mouth. I replay the four words Nate sent me.
*You okay?*
And that’s when I know the problem isn't that Ethan is a bad kisser. The problem is that Nate has taught my body the difference between being kissed and being known.