"We have a date," I said, trying not to smile like an idiot.
"Oh?" he asked, amused now. "When?"
I shrugged, trying to play it off, my voice a little too breezy. "He hasn't said yet."
He nudged me gently with his elbow. "Well, when he does finally set a date, maybe warn me in advance. So I can prepare mytalking-to-the-boyvoice."
"You already did the voice," I muttered.
"I did the pre-date voice. There's a difference." He explained and left.
After a while, I stood by the window and called him.He picked up after one ring.
"June," he said—soft, a little breathless, "Hey."
"Hey," I said, smiling before I could help it. "Quick question."
"Go for it."
"When exactly were you planning to take me on this mysterious date of yours?" I asked, trying for casual but already blushing. "Because I may or may not have told my dad we had one. And I really don't want to look like I'm out here inventing fictional men for emotional clout."
He laughed, low and sheepish. "Damn. Caught in 4K."
"Exactly," I said. "So? Do I need to start photoshopping you into pictures, or are you going to make an honest woman out of me and take me somewhere?"
"I was waiting for your signal," he said. "Didn't want to interfere with your... orbital velocity. Figured I'd follow your lead. Respect the gravity of your situation."
"Wow," I said, already smiling. "That was a lot of space metaphor for one sentence."
"I'm nothing if not consistently on brand," he said. "Also: still mildly terrified of your father."
"You should be."
"I am. The man stares like he's plotting my astronomical demise."
"Well, hedidask me once if you had 'intentions.'"
He made a panicked sound. "Did you tell him I barely havecoordination, let alone intentions?"
I laughed. "I might've said you had one intention: to quote Carl Sagan until I cry."
"Hey. That's a very specific niche. And I've honed it for years."
There was a pause. Quiet static, but the good kind. The kind that feels like starlight waiting to be named.
"So?" I asked softly. "What about tonight?"
A beat. I heard a faint shuffle—papers maybe, the unmistakable squeak of his desk chair, a click that sounded suspiciously like a weather app loading.
"Hang on—"
"You're checking the sky right now, aren't you?"
"I amabsolutelynot checking the moon phase, atmospheric clarity, or meteor activity," he said. "Nor am I consulting my totally-not-obsessive spreadsheet titledPotential Romantic Astronomical Events, Ranked by Heartache Risk and Light Pollution Index."
I snorted. "You have a spreadsheet?"
"You don't?"
