Written with Love

02 Not A Caramel Apple

Annie

"Where are we going?" I asked, tugging the hem of my dress down my thigh as we walked, hyper aware of the fact that it was September in Washington and I'd left my giant puffy jacket back at the dorm in favor of a thin leather coat. Meaning, I was very close to freezing to death, on top of the fact that I was blindly following a man I didn't know down a night-darkened street. I'd told Sasha I was leaving the party at least, and gave her strict instructions to call if I didn't text within the next couple of hours, but still. I didn't even know the guy's name.

"I thought we could eat something. I'm buying you dinner." The street was quiet, so it wasn't like I could've misheard him, but I was confused by his words. I turned to ask one of the many follow-up questions that had just come to mind and accidentally missed a step, tripping on a sidewalk crack and stumbling forward.

His arm was at my waist before I even registered the tumble, and I froze, barely breathing as his eyes met mine.

There was still heat in them, a melty, liquid quality to his navy gaze that was almost dizzying and I took it as an invitation to lean forward, ever so slightly pressing myself against him. He was really cute, which I already knew, but the way his mouth curled up in the corner reinforced it.

He had a little scar, right below where his unfairly long eyelashes brushed the skin of his cheek, and I suddenly, desperately, wanted to know where it came from.

"Is dinner okay?" I flushed, realizing the heat of his body had distracted me from his words. I stepped back, tugging again at the hem of my dress, shivering as cold air hit the spot his hand had been.

"It's, like, eleven." That wasn't the only part of the plan I was hesitant about, but I couldn't say I was thinking very clearly, and given that I was currently shivering on an empty sidewalk in the woodsier part of UW's campus, gently rain-glazed evergreens stretching up around us, it felt like the most pressing one. In that moment it felt, a little, like we were the only people around for miles.

"I know a place."

"And it's open now?" That was a stupid question, of course it would be. Anywhere along the Ave, the road that stretched parallel to campus and had all the best spots to eat, would be open at all kinds of crazy hours. Again, not thinking clearly. Not quite recalibrated to this new set of evening plans.

"Of course." He waited for me to respond, gaze steady. I hadn't yet decided whether to be flattered or offended that he'd thought I wanted dinner instead of... something else, and a low level of embarrassment rose in my cheeks as I thought of how obvious I'd been earlier. I was not usually like that, but something about his eyes, the way he'd looked at me and was still looking at me, made it impossible to avoid the fact that I wanted him. Really, really wanted him.

"Just so we're on the same page, I said 'somewhere quieter' and you thought food?"

His mouth quirked again, this time with what looked suspiciously like embarrassment.

"I think I said somewhere quieter, actually. And the thought was a little more like, 'that might just be the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, I wonder if she likes tacos.'"

I couldn't help it, I laughed. He looked pleased with himself.

"Or not tacos. I also know where to find a mean chicken sandwich, or ice cream if you're not in a dinner mood. Or onion rings, if you're not in an anything mood, and just want to be wowed by the history-making human invention of the deep-fry machine."

"History-making?"

"Yes, history-making. Deep-frying things is the modern equivalent of Prometheus's fire. There are Wikipedia pages to back that up."