26. Jae #2
The guy running the fryer beams as soon as we step up, sliding a potato-crusted corndog smothered in sugar across the counter.
“Mi hija,” the guy says, shaking his head. “Where have you been? I haven't seen you in three weeks. I was starting to think you finally got tired of our food.”
Amiyah takes a massive bite. Hot mozzarella stretches six inches between her teeth and the stick.
She catches the trailing cheese with her index finger, licking it off without breaking eye contact with me, and a sudden, sharp jolt hits low in my gut, dragging a heavy, immediate heat straight to my dick.
I have to stare straight at a glowing taco sign for three full seconds just to force my blood back where it belongs.
“Never,” she tells him around her bite, completely unapologetic. “School has just had me in a total chokehold. I’ve practically been going through withdrawals.”
“Ah,” the guy laughs, pointing a greasy spatula at her. “And now you’re back crawling. The good stuff always pulls you in.”
We hit the boba counter next. She gets something neon pink with popping boba; I order a black iced Americano that tastes like battery acid and costs six bucks. Worth every drop.
Three stalls down, outside a churro cart smelling of hot lard and burnt cinnamon, we stop so she can grab a paper bag of fresh churros.
Then we hit a burger stand for a heavy brown paper sack of double cheeseburgers and fries.
Suddenly, Amiyah stops dead in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, her hands juggling her corndog and boba cup, while I’m the one hauling the heavy brown paper sack of burgers, fries, and the bag of warm churros.
She shifts her drink and corndog precariously, then uses her elbow to nudge my black t-shirt.
She extends her pink quilted purse with its shiny gold accents toward me, dangling it by the strap.
I look at the bag, then back at her face. “What is this?”
“Hold it,” she says around a mouthful of corndog. “My hands are full.”
“You only have a corndog and a drink.”
“Yes, exactly. My hands are full.”
I take the pink quilted strap and sling it over my shoulder.
It sits against my hip—an absurd, bright pink purse with gleaming gold hardware bouncing against my all-black outfit, right on top of my arms full of greasy takeout.
The sheer audacity of her handing it over without asking makes a laugh catch in my throat.
I bite the inside of my cheek, adjusting the strap like it’s a tactical rig over my wide-legged pants.
We keep walking down the crowded corridor of stalls, me hauling a mountain of food in one hand while rocking a high-fashion women's handbag across my chest. Amiyah launches into a ruthless takedown of our Property Law professor’s latest case brief, her hands moving dynamically as she tears apart the legal logic.
I tell her about the stray kitten I’m still keeping an eye on at the clinic.
“She’s going to rule that household in a week,” I say. “Total alpha energy.”
Amiyah bursts out laughing.
It’s loud, sudden, and completely unhinged from her usual classroom composure. Her head tilts back, her eyes crinkling, the pink boba straw still wedged between her fingers. Out here on the crowded street, she laughs with her whole body.
I watch the way her hair catches the neon light as she talks, completely hooked, holding a mountain of grease-stained paper bags and her quilted purse while the crowd shoves past us.
The comedy club is a cramped, narrow hole-in-the-wall tucked between a thrift shop and a taco stand. We grab two metal folding chairs near the back. I dump our food trash under the seat and drop her quilted pink purse squarely in my lap as the house lights drop.
The comedian on stage is fast, working the room with brutal crowd work, but the noise just dissolves into a dull hum against the ringing in my ears. My focus keeps drifting sideways.
Every time the crowd surges or yells out a punchline, Amiyah’s hand blindly finds my forearm in the dark.
Her fingers grip right through the cotton of my t-shirt, her nails digging sharp and hard into my skin during a brutal bit about dating apps.
She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it—she’s just anchored to me, her grip tight enough to bruise.
It's agonizing. That blunt, unconscious pressure of her hand sends a slow, heavy drag of heat straight up my arm, turning every nerve ending under my skin raw.
She sits through Property Law like she's made of ice and code, but here in the dark, she’s all friction and exposed pulse, radiating a warmth that makes it hard to pull a full breath into my chest. Every time she laughs and shifts against my shoulder, the scent of vanilla and sugar wraps around me like a trap I have no interest in escaping.
I couldn't tell you a single joke the guy on stage told. All I’m aware of is the terrifying weight of how badly I want to turn my hand over, thread my fingers through hers, and drag her out of this room.
Instead, I just sit there in the dark, staring at the pink flush high on her cheekbones, quietly taking it. I’d sit on these terrible metal chairs every night of the week until my back gave out, just to let her pull me apart like this.
When the show wraps, we step back out onto the cooling pavement. The crowds have thinned, leaving long, distorted shadows under the streetlights.
“That was actually good,” she says softly, the frantic energy of the night settling into something easier.
“Yeah.” I hand her pink purse back, sliding the gold-accented strap off my shoulder. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, lingering half a second too long before she pulls away.
We walk the ten minutes back toward her building, the conversation winding down into a low hum. When we reach the curved drive, her car is parked right where she left it under the glow of a security light.
Amiyah stops beside the driver's side door and turns to face me.
The air between us turns heavy all at once. She shifts her weight, her arms crossing over her chest, then uncrossing, her fingers nervously snagging on the hem of her hoodie.
“Thanks for the food, Jae,” she says softly.
“Thanks for not flaking.”
She takes a small step forward. I close the gap.
Our arms find each other in that clumsy, uncoordinated geometry of two people trying not to make a hug weird. Her arms wrap around my waist, her head hitting my collarbone. My arms go around her shoulders, pulling her solid and warm against my chest.
We hold it a second too long. We let go a second too fast.
Her hands drop. I shove mine deep into my pants pockets before I do something stupid.
I want to kiss her so badly it aches. I look at her mouth—the soft curve of her bottom lip, the faint sheen of lip balm—and every instinct screams at me to back her up against the cold metal of her car door, to press my weight into hers and finally feel her hands thread through my hair, her body arching against mine until there’s no air left between us.
Instead, her eyes are wide and careful, watching my face like she’s trying to read the fine print on a contract she’s not sure she signed.
So I stay put. Hands buried, heart hammering.
“Goodnight, Jae,” she whispers.
“Goodnight, Amiyah.”
She unlocks the door, sliding behind the wheel, and gives me a final, quiet look before pulling it shut.
I stand on the pavement for a long minute, watching her headlights sweep across the asphalt as she backs out and drives away.
The night air hits my face, cool and sharp. I run the whole evening back—her laugh in the dark room, the ridiculous weight of her pink purse against my hip, the exact feeling of her ribs against mine.
I turn and start the long walk back to my apartment, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets, completely unable to stop the grin from spreading across my face.