Hoodie Elian would wear white. Safe. Invisible. But tonight is not a safe night. Tonight is a date.
I put the light blue shirt on, then layer it — white Oxford underneath, sleeves rolled to the elbows, black V-neck sweater vest over it, cream trousers. Light blue peeking from the collar. This makes it less safe. More me. It does make my eyes greener. My cheeks are already pink and I haven't even left the flat yet.
I do extra. Just a little. Hair — actually brushed properly. A tiny bit of cologne Milo gave me. I redo my collar three times. Because Oliver fixed it yesterday. Because Ethan noticed.
7:12 PM. My Uber is outside. I am going to be late.
The cinema is the one on George Street. I have been here exactly 47 times, but tonight it looks different — because from across the street, I can see him.
Ethan. He is leaning against the brick wall, casual, one shoulder pressed to it, hands in the pockets of his long black wool coat. Black turtleneck underneath, dark grey tailored trousers, black leather shoes. Effortlessly handsome, like he walked out of a magazine but forgot to notice. And people are noticing. For him. Two girls near the entrance whisper and glance. One of them giggles and openly looks at him. A guy walking past does a double-take.
Ethan doesn't see any of it. Or he does and he doesn't care. He's just looking at his phone, then up at the street, waiting. Calm.
My Uber stops. I run. Which is very uncool and very Elian.
"Ethan! Ethan! Sorry! I'm—" I am panting. My black vest slightly creased from running. My hair is now definitely not brushed properly anymore. "—traffic on Walton Street, and the driver went the long way, and I— sorry—"
He looks at me. Really looks at me. From my messed-up hair down to my cream trousers. Then he smiles — that slow, crinkly-eyes smile.
"Hey," he says, quiet. Like I wasn't eight minutes late. "You came."
"Of course I came!"
"You look beautiful," he says.
My brain stops.
"Wha—"
"The vest," he says, stepping a little closer. "It suits you. Really."
My ears go red. All the way down to my neck. On George Street.
"You look..." I swallow. "You look like you should be on a poster. People were staring at you. That coat—"
Ethan shrugs. "They're not who I'm here for."
He offers his hand. Palm up. I take it. His hand is warm. Bigger. Mine disappears into his.
"Come on. We have a film to not pay attention to. And popcorn to buy."
We buy tickets. He pays before I can even reach for my wallet. I protest. He says, "Next time you can pay. With coffee. Free refills for life?"
We buy popcorn — salted. And two teas, because he remembered I don't drink coffee after 6 PM or I can't sleep.
The film is… I don't know what the film is. Something with a lot of talking and a car chase. But I can't focus. Every thirty seconds, I glance at him. Ethan watches films like he does everything — calm, still, focused. Blue-grey eyes on the screen, jaw relaxed, one arm resting on the armrest between us. So handsome in the dark in that black turtleneck, his coat folded over the next seat.
Then halfway through the car chase, without looking at me, his hand moves. And finds mine. His fingers lace with mine. Warm. Firm.
I freeze.
He doesn't look at me. Just squeezes, gentle, and whispers without taking his eyes off the screen: "Breathe, Elian."
"I am breathing!" I whisper back. But I'm not.
"Your ears are red," he whispers. "Even in the dark, I can tell."
"They are not—"
He finally looks at me. In the cinema dark, his eyes are darker. "Are you watching the film?" he asks, soft, teasing.
"Yes!" I lie. Badly.
He smiles. "Liar. You've looked at me seven times since the second car exploded."
"You counted?"
"I always count when it's you."
I drop my head onto his shoulder for half a second. He lets me. His thumb strokes the back of my hand. Calm. Steady.
"Watch the film," he whispers. "I'll still be here after."
I try. But his hand is in mine. And he smells like cold air and laundry detergent. For the boy who makes black coffee less bitter, he once wrote. My cheeks burn remembering the note.
Film ends. Lights up. We walk out onto George Street, still holding hands until the crowd pushes us apart.
"So, what did you think?" Ethan says, hands back in his coat pockets, looking down at me.
"There was… a car? And it exploded? Twice?"
He laughs. "You didn't watch a single minute, did you?"
"I watched you!" I blurt out. Then I want to evaporate. "I mean—"
"Cute," he says.
"I was a little distracted," I mumble.
"I know," he says. "Me too."
"You were distracted? You looked so calm!"
"I was calmly distracted. By you."
We walk. Seven minutes later, we stop on Little Clarendon Street. Small door. Warm light. Six tables, candles, exposed brick. Private. Quiet. Expensive-quiet.
"Oh. This looks… this looks not cheap."
"It's not as pricey as it seems," Ethan says, reading my mind. "My friend owns it. He gives me a friend's rate. And he owes me for finding him a flat last year."
We go in. Corner table. Candlelight. We eat — tomato soup, like Mum's but fancier, and pasta. I talk and he listens like I'm the most interesting person he's met.
Dinner ends. He pays again. "You can make me coffee tomorrow. Extra bitter."
It's 10:34 PM when he walks me home. Jericho streets. My flat — second floor, converted terraced house, small wooden door that sticks. I fumble with my keys. My vest is still okay, somehow.
"So, that was… really nice. Thank you."
"Thank you for coming," he says. "You looked really good tonight."
I finally get the door open. Warm air, fairy lights on. My tiny flat: unmade bed with a dinosaur hoodie thrown over it, rail of clothes, three IKEA boxes, posters, small kitchenette with a kettle, chipped mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST BARISTA, second-hand rug Oliver helped me carry.
I am nervous. But I want him to see it.
"Do you… want to come up for a bit? Just for tea? I have tea. And Mum's bread—"
Ethan looks at the stairs. Then at me. "I'd love tea."
We go up. Slanted ceiling, so Ethan has to duck near the window — his long coat makes him look even taller. Fairy lights warm. Smell of laundry and old books.
"This is nice," he says. He takes off his coat, hangs it carefully, his black turtleneck making his shoulders look broader. He sits on the edge of my bed. He looks huge and also like he belongs here.
"This is my… everything," I say, handing him tea in the chipped mug. "Bed, wardrobe, kitchen, library…"
"It's you. It's exactly you."
We sit. Close. Our knees touch — cream trousers against dark grey. Tonight it feels closer than usual. The bed is small, so his knee presses gently against mine and stays there. Warm. His turtleneck is soft at the shoulder. Every time I laugh about Milo or Oliver's eyebrow, his eyes drop to my mouth for half a second, then back up.
My mug is warm, but not as warm as where our legs touch. I shift just an inch. He doesn't move away.
"You're cold," he whispers.
"I'm not—" But my hands are cold around the mug.
He reaches, fingertips barely brushing the back of my knuckles. Quick, light. "Better?"
I nod, ears red. The fairy lights reflect in the chipped mug. The whole flat feels smaller. Warmer.
We don't stay long. He says he has an early train. He stands. I stand. He hugs me — proper hug. Wool coat, clean cologne, arms wrapping around me. I disappear into it. Then he kisses my forehead. Soft.
"You did good tonight," he whispers. "You look really good in that vest."
He pulls back. "Lock your door, okay? And eat something. Not just tea."
He rinses his cup and goes down.
I stand at my tiny window. A buzz.
Oliver: You forgot bread again this morning. Mum said you left without eating. Did you eat?
Milo: ELIAN DID YOU SURVIVE THE DATE??? DID HE KISS YOU??? TELL ME EVERYTHING OR I WILL TELL ETHAN ABOUT THE DINOSAUR HOODIE!!!
I laugh, glancing at the hoodie on my bed. Another buzz.
Ethan: Go inside, it's cold by the window. And your light is on. I can see it.
I look down. He's still there. On the pavement, under the streetlight, hands in pockets, looking up. I wave. He waves.
Elian: Are you still there?
Ethan: Until your light goes off. So I know you're safe. Go rest. You have a shift tomorrow. 5 till close, right?
Elian: …you remembered.
Ethan: I remember everything you tell me.
I turn my fairy lights off — one by one — leaving just the small lamp by my bed. Down below, he stays a moment longer, looking up at the warm glow. Then he turns and walks away into Jericho, into the drizzle — long black coat disappearing around the corner.
And I am left in my tiny flat, in my vest and cream trousers, holding a chipped mug that says WORLD'S OKAYEST BARISTA, grinning like an idiot at a window.
