Movie night (with popcorn)
Coffee and hot chocolate concoction
Skate spot / board situation
“Coffee and hot chocolate?” I ask.
“Don’t knock it until you try it.”
I nod, lips curving into a small, dangerous smile, then let my gaze drag to the very last item. Our eyes lock. My heartbeat hammers loudly in my chest. “Board situation,” I say, my voice lower than I mean it to be.
Ozzy’s mouth gives the tiniest twitch, the corner lifting in that way that always feels like a dare. “That’s… a very technical term.”
“You’re adorable,” slips out before I can catch it. It’s soft, unguarded, and almost fond.
He freezes. Just for a heartbeat. Then something shifts in his stare: the playful glint hardens into something darker, hungrier. Heat coils behind his pupils like a lit fuse.
My pulse kicks hard against my throat. My cheeks burn. I hate how easily he does that to me. I wrench my eyes away first, force a scoff, fall back into the familiar armor of sarcasm because if I don’t, I might do something reckless like climb across this table.
“So,” I say, tapping the notebook a little too sharply, “you’re out here making me a fucking bucket list like it’s no big deal.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. If anything, it drags slower now—down my jaw, my throat, back up—like he’s memorizing every place my skin flushed. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rougher than before, “keep calling me adorable and I might start thinking you mean it.”
The air between us feels thinner. Hotter. Like the next person to speak is going to be the one who breaks first.
I swallow. Tilt my head. “Would that be so terrible?”
His eyes flare. He leans in one slow, deliberate inch. “Keep talking like that,” he says quietly, “and we’re gonna find out.”
I straighten my posture and try to push away all the attraction I have for this man. Because that would be dangerous, right? My life isn’t all sparkles and sunshine. Girls like me don’t deserve love. We don't really deserve any of this. “So, this bucket list…”
“It’s a mini one,” he corrects. “Not, like, ‘skydiving’ unless you want to.”
“I do not want to skydive,” I say immediately. “I’m already done with falling.”
Ozzy’s expression changes, the humor dimming. He nods slowly. “Okay.” He says it like he hears the weight behind it. Like he knows that wasn’t a joke.
The silence stretches.
I clear my throat. “Also, I’m not some tragic charity project.”
Ozzy leans back against the counter, pen still in hand. “I know.”
“I mean it,” I press, because something in me panics when people are kind. Like kindness is always a prelude to being owed. “I’m not?—”
“Salem,” he interrupts gently, and my name in his mouth is grounding. “I’m not doing this because I feel sorry for you.”