"You're staring again," Cleave said, tossing a crumpled napkin at Sara's face. It bounced off her nose and plopped into her coffee. She didn’t flinch.
Sara had perfected the art of staring without technically staring—eyes slightly unfocused, head tilted just enough to make it seem like she was studying the neon “50% Off Sushi” sign behind him rather than the way his laugh made his collarbone shift under his half-buttoned shirt. Six years of friendship had given her a PhD in subtlety.
"Maybe I like staring at expired sushi ads," Sara said, stirring the napkin into her coffee as though it were part of some elaborate barista ritual. The cup was officially ruined, but she’d drink sewer water before admitting he flustered her.
Cleave leaned across the sticky diner table, close enough that she could count his eyelashes if she wanted to (she had—78 on the left, 81 on the right). "Liar," he sing-songed, flicking a sugar packet at her forehead. "You were mentally undressing me again."
Sara caught the sugar packet midair and crushed it in her hand, feeling the granules burst. "Mentally undressing you?" She scoffed, tossing the ruined packet back at him. "Please. I’d need way more imagination—and possibly therapy—to work with what’s under there."
Cleave clutched his chest like she’d shot him, but the grin splitting his face didn’t falter. "Ouch." He gestured dramatically at their booth—the cracked vinyl, the mysterious stain near Sara’s elbow, the salt shaker that only worked if you shook it like you were trying to murder it.
Then his grin softened, something quieter, dangerous even. He reached across the table and plucked the ruined coffee cup from her hands, his fingers brushing hers long enough to make her pulse stutter. "You know," he murmured, swirling the napkin-laden liquid, "for someone who claims to lack imagination, you’ve been very creative with your excuses for avoiding my birthday party for six years straight."
Sara blinked. Not where she’d expected this to go. "I had food poisoning in 2019," she said automatically.
Cleave snorted, flicking a stray sugar crystal off the table. "Food poisoning? Sara, you texted me a picture of you eating gas station sushi that same night with the caption, ‘living dangerously.’"
Her instinct was to reply with something about bacterial resilience and questionable life choices, but Cleave’s foot hooked around her ankle under the table, tugging just hard enough to make her lurch forward. Her palms hit the sticky table with a slap.
"You’re such a—" she started, but he cut her off by leaning in close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his ridiculously pretty eyes.
"—liar," Sara finished weakly, her voice cracking as his nose brushed hers. The diner's fluorescent lights cast his eyelashes’ shadows across his cheeks, and she smelled the bitter-sweet coffee on his breath.
Cleave’s foot stayed hooked around her ankle, his grin lazy. "Prove it," he murmured, so low she almost didn’t catch it.
Sara opened her mouth to retort—something sharp, clever—but all that came out was a strangled noise when Cleave’s thumb grazed the inside of her wrist, still pinned to the table. "Prove it?" she echoed, voice suddenly too high. "What, like… a science experiment?"
Cleave rolled his eyes but didn’t lose the grin. "Sure," he said, dragging the word out. "Hypothesis: Sara Li is a terrible liar who’s been in love with me since sophomore year."
Sara laughed half-choked, fingers twitching against the sticky table. "In love with you?" She jerked her wrist free—or tried—yet Cleave tightened his grip just enough to keep her pinned.
"Or," he whispered, breath warm against her ear, "I finally cracked the case of Sara Li’s extremely suspicious behavior." His thumb traced circles on her pulse, reading it like a traitorous rhythm. "Like how you always take the seat opposite me so you can stare without turning your head."
"Or how you memorized how many eyelashes I have," he continued, voice dropping into a whisper that slithered under her skin. Sara’s breath hitched—he noticed that?
"Or that time you—"
"Shut up," Sara blurted, jerking her wrist again. Cleave let go, then immediately trapped her other hand. The move was so fluid it felt choreographed, like they’d practiced this dance a hundred times.
"You're literally listing my crimes like some kind of—of romantic deposition—"
Cleave’s grin turned wolfish as he pinned her other wrist to the table, fingers lacing through hers in a way that felt suspiciously like holding hands. "Romantic deposition? Sara, I live for your crimes." He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Especially the one where you stole my hoodie in 2020 and still pretend you 'don’t know where it went.'"
Sara’s knee jerked up instinctively, almost knocking over the salt shaker. "I don’t—"
Cleave pressed his forehead to hers, noses bumping in a mix of infuriating and intimate. She exhaled sharply—the breath meant to be exasperated, but embarrassingly shaky. He held her hands, and the realization hit: she was done. Six years of stolen hoodies and carefully avoided eye contact, all leading here.
"Fine," she muttered, flexing her fingers against his grip. "You win. Happy?"
Cleave pulled back slightly, eyebrow raised, grin widening. "Depends. What am I winning?"
Sara rolled her eyes, seeing the neon sign flicker in her vision. "Me, you idiot. As your—" She bit down on the word girlfriend before it could escape, aware of the sticky table, the salt shaker digging into her elbow, how this was the least romantic confession ever. "As your partner-in-crime. Or whatever."
Cleave’s grip slackened, thumb brushing her pulse. "Or whatever," he echoed, voice dripping with amusement. "Very convincing, Li. Really selling it."
She jerked her hands free—then immediately regretted it when he caught her face, fingers warm against her cheeks. The diner faded away, leaving just the way his thumbs brushed her mouth.
"You’re such a pain," she breathed, but the insult lacked teeth.
"Yeah," he murmured, "but I’m your pain." Then he kissed her—slow, deliberate, like he’d mapped the angle years ago. Sara’s hands fisted his shirt, dragging him closer. The vinyl squeaked, the salt shaker toppled, and somewhere, a waiter sighed loudly.
They broke apart only when Sara’s lungs burned, forehead bumping his with a dull click. "Wow," she deadpanned, gasping, "for someone who literally just accused me of staring, you’re bad at personal space."
Cleave nipped her bottom lip, grinning when she yelped. "Hypothesis confirmed," he said, tapping her nose. "Sara Li kisses like she’s trying to win a fight."
"Oh, screw you—"
"Already?" Cleave widened his eyes, mock-scandalized. "Bold move for our first official minute as partners-in-crime." His thumbs pressed into the dip of her collarbones, memorizing her shape. Sara shivered—partly from touch, mostly from the way he said partners.
The waiter slammed their check onto the table, exasperated. Sara fumbled for her wallet, but Cleave tossed a crumpled bill onto the tray without breaking eye contact.
"So," he dragged the word out, "since we’re official now—"
"—since we’re official now," he continued, drumming fingers to her heartbeat, "does this mean I get to reclaim my stolen hoodie?" His grin promised mischief—and maybe, if she was lucky, payback.
Sara leaned back, vinyl squeaking, folding her arms. "Oh, please," she scoffed, "like you didn’t steal my favorite sweatshirt first." She pointed at him, nail slightly sticky from syrup. "That gray one with the ripped pocket? The one you swore you ‘lost’ after one sleepover?"
