The Burgers
Khalee
“So… what do you think?” he asks expectantly, leaning forward with a mix of excitement and nervousness. I want to answer right away, but the mouthful of fries I’m working on has other plans.
The burger diner we’re sitting in is a local legend in Stormhaven, not just for the food, which is undeniably impressive, but for its long-standing reputation.
It’s the kind of place that feels timeless, cozy, and oddly intimate, especially for the countless students from the nearby university. The proximity to campus pretty much guarantees a steady stream of young customers, keeping its fame alive and thriving.
I’ve heard about this place plenty of times before. Growing up nearby, it was impossible not to. But knowing I might bump into people who’d recognize me, or worse, want to talk to me, has always been reason enough to steer clear.
I don’t need that kind of attention. I don’t like it.
The people around here? Most of them are either making stupid decisions or glorifying others who do.
I’d rather be alone and happy than surround myself with assholes.
Loneliness has always felt safer.
That’s why I’ve been thinking about studying abroad.
The idea of starting fresh somewhere far away from all the judgment and expectations has been on my mind for months now. Even being here tonight is out of my comfort zone, but something about K makes me feel bold.
Or maybe just reckless.
“It’s fantastic,” I finally manage, after swallowing. His eyes light up at my answer, and the expectant smile on his face morphs into a smug one.
“I’m surprised,” he says, leaning back in his chair with an easy confidence, his arms crossing as he taps his thumb against his lower lip.
“Surprised because I liked the burger so much?” I tease, mirroring his posture. It feels like we’re squaring off in some kind of ego standoff. “I thought you were certain it’d be the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
“Well, yeah,” he admits, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “But mostly because I think this is the first time you’ve set foot in here.”
“It is. Never been here before,” I reply.
“Really?”
“As real as it gets,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “But I’ll give you credit, it was clever to bring me to a crowd favorite and call it a date. Where I’m from, we’d call that cheating.”
“You can’t fault a man for at least trying,” he counters with a laugh. “But honestly, since you suggested meeting in Stormhaven, I figured you lived in the city.”
It’s moments like this that remind me how little we actually know about each other. Despite the easy flow of our conversation and the connection I feel when I’m with him, we’re still strangers in so many ways.
Inviting him out was impulsive, a spur-of-the-moment decision born from the hope he’d say yes. I hadn’t thought through the consequences—like how close we’d sit across the table, or how choosing this spot was, in its own way, letting him step into my world.
Clearly, he’s thought about it, though.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have asked.
“I’m from nearby,” I say carefully, testing the waters. “But since you didn’t hesitate to meet me here, I’m guessing you do live nearby too.”
He smiles faintly, tilting his head. “Yeah, I do. Been here the last few years.”
“So you study here, I guess?”
“You could say that.”
“Hmm,” I muse. “So, keeping the mystery alive is still the game plan?”
“It’s not about the mystery itself anymore,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful.
Something flickers in his gaze, playfulness, maybe, but there’s also a glimmer of desire.
My stomach tightens, caught in a tangle of nerves and curiosity, the same way it had when I first saw him at the park. Whatever he means, I can’t decipher it.
“What’s it about, then?” I ask.
“I like… this.” He gestures vaguely between us. “Trying to figure you out.”
His thumb then traces his lower lip as his arms, inked with tattoos that peek out from beneath his rolled-up sleeves, rest against the edge of the table. His eyes are steady, their intensity pinning me in place.
For a moment, I feel emotionally bare, as if he can see right through me.
“And,” he adds, his voice softer now, “I like your attempts at trying to figure me out even more. It’s almost like… wait.”
He abruptly reaches into his jacket, pulling out a worn black notebook and a pen. His sudden movement catches me off guard, and I watch, transfixed, as he scribbles something down with quick, deliberate strokes.
It’s not just the unexpectedness of the gesture, it’s the way his hands move, strong and tattooed yet oddly gentle as they grip the pen. He bites his lip in concentration, and I feel a rush of heat and cold all at once. Goosebumps prick my skin, and my breath catches somewhere in my chest.
His hands are… sexy.
He is sexy.
And though I’m already drawn to him on some unspoken emotional level, the physical pull hits me like a tidal wave. What’s wrong with me?
“That’s it,” he says finally, holding the notebook up like a prize. “You and me, it’s like starting over. A blank canvas. I get to paint you, piece by piece, and watch as you paint me in your eyes. It’s… nice.”
I blink, caught between being utterly perplexed by his metaphor and completely captivated by it.
Words hover on the tip of my tongue to reply, but curiosity gets the better of me as my eyes dart to the notebook in his hand.
“What’s that?” I ask, nodding toward it.
His expression shifts immediately, a flicker of shock crossing his face.
He clutches the notebook defensively, pulling it close like it contains secrets he hadn’t meant to reveal.
The realization strikes me: he’s so comfortable in our conversation, so at ease, that he didn’t even realize he’d pulled it out and started writing.
It was instinctive, second nature.
“Hey!” I say quickly, reaching across the table, my hand brushing his arm in reassurance. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But there’s nothing to be ashamed of, either.”
He hesitates for a moment, then lets out a small laugh, running a hand through his hair that I can see he always uses messily.
“It’s not shame,” he says finally, his voice quieter now.
“It’s just… my head’s always chaos, you know?
Like, there’s so much information swirling around up there, I can’t keep track of it most times.
Writing helps me organize it. Makes it easier to, uh, figure out what’s worth saying later. ”
I tilt my head, intrigued.
“So the notebook is, like, your brain’s filing cabinet?”
“Something like that,” he admits, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Otherwise, it’s like trying to make sense of twenty radio stations playing at the same time. Writing’s the only way I can tune them down and figure out which one’s playing the right song.”
I nod slowly, understanding more than I expected to.
“That makes sense. Honestly, I wish I had a system like that.”
“Yeah?” He leans forward, his eyes softening. “What do you do when it gets noisy up there?” He asks while he taps his temple lightly, and I can’t help but smile at the gesture.
“I play with my cards,” I reply. “Tarot readings, mostly. It’s not exactly the same, but it helps me focus. Gives me something to do with my hands and my thoughts.”
He grins. “Guess we’re not so different after all.”
“Except for the part where you’re a musician,” I point out, raising an eyebrow. “And a good one. Those lullabies you play on the phone? They’re magic, K. I’ve fallen asleep to them more times than I can count.”
His smile falters for a moment, replaced by something deeper, more thoughtful. “Those aren’t really songs,” he says, his voice low and almost shy. “They’re… pieces. Fragments of melodies that come into my head. I try to piece them together, like a puzzle, but sometimes they don’t fit.”
I blink. “They sound perfect to me.”
He shrugs, his fingers idly tracing the edge of the notebook. “That’s the thing. They’re not supposed to be perfect. They’re just… feelings. Moments. I guess playing them is my way of figuring out how I feel.”
“I think that’s what makes them special,” I say softly. “They’re flawed. Honest, and that makes them real. I once read that the most beautiful songs are the simplest, because in the end, it’s not the complexity that moves us, but the rawness of the message, unfiltered and unhidden beneath layers.”
He looks up at me, his green eyes locking onto mine, and for a moment, the world narrows down to just the two of us. “Thanks,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m happy you like them.”
“You know, people usually disregard Virgos’ talents for the arts. They have a talent with their hands, so it’s not surprising you play the guitar so well,” I say, trying to sound casual.
He laughs softly, his grin both amused and charming. “Do you really believe that?”
I pop a French fry into my mouth and nod, giving him a teasing smirk.
“You know I’m a bit skeptical,” he says, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“You do you,” I reply, shrugging. “I’m also a terrible singer, so unfortunately, we’ll never be able to help each other in our arts.”
“Yeah, seems like it,” he chuckles again. Then, tilting his head with a playful glint in his eye, he adds, “But what else do you have to say about Virgos? Because I have to confess, I’m curious.”
“Oh, where do I start?” I say, pretending to ponder deeply. “Virgos are perfectionists, insanely detail-oriented, and they’re, well… practical. Which means they’re great problem solvers but also terrible at handling emotions most of the times.”
“Harsh,” he teases, raising an eyebrow. “But fair. Anything else?”
“Hmm,” I continue, my voice dropping just slightly. “Virgos are usually really good with their hands, as I mentioned…” I trail off, suddenly realizing how that sounded. My cheeks burn instantly, and I avert my gaze, biting down on my lip to stifle an embarrassed laugh.
He notices immediately, of course.