It wasn't until I had already left Mi's room and was standing in the hallway of the second floor did I realize a certain key factor: his mother was roaming around the main floor. Even in my panic-driven need to leave I couldn't risk his mother seeing me.

I stood at the top of the stairs, railing in hand and willing an idea to come to me. None did.

I couldn't go back into his room- I wouldn't. I had almost said the one thing I had tried so hard to contain, and to hear it in words somehow made it so much more real. Not that Miles would ever know the difference.

Pans rustled downstairs. The kitchen was located at the back of the house and the stairs ended right in front of the door, so I decided now was the best time to leave. The old stairs creaked as I went down, but Miles's mom began singing to herself and overpowering any noise I was making. I grabbed my shoes and slid out the door. I'd done it enough times to know how to do it with minimal sound.

I forgot my jacket. And phone. And these weren't my clothes.

With no money and no way to call Gemma, I was screwed.

A cold breeze engulfed my bare arms, causing goosebumps to rise in places I didn't know could have goosebumps. I couldn't go back, of that much I was certain. I also could not walk home.

That was how I found myself heading towards Carol's Coffee House, telling myself that it was only because it was open 24 hours and I was desperate, and pretending there wasn't a faint hope that I may see the boy with the soft brown eyes.

There were two cars in the parking lot, and one of the fluorescent pink letters on the sign had burned out since I was last here. None of that was of any relevance though. I just needed to use the phone and call Gemma and hope to God that she could figure out some way to get me back home without getting herself arrested for driving without a license.

Just as I was turning the corner around the parking lot to the main door, he came shooting out in a whirlwind, shoving his apron into his black messenger bag. The Irish waiter from last time. He was in such a rush that if I hadn't moved out of his way he would have ran straight into me.

"Sorry," he mumbled, side-stepping me. He didn't even glance up from his fumbling hands.

Breathe, Bailey. Just say it. Get his attention.

I knew if I let him leave that may be my chance at a phone gone. Whoever was in the coffee shop now many require me to purchase something to use their phone- a fairly difficult task when I wasn't even wearing my own pants, let alone had money. But I was shy and awkward. I'd had the same friends for practically the last four years, and no reason to talk to anyone else. I didn't need to make new friends.

"Wait," I said. It barely fell from my lips as a whisper, but it was enough to get him to turn and glance up. A smile washed across his face.

"Hey," he replied, "I thought you were never coming back." Those weren't my exact words from last time, but they were close enough.

I shrugged in an awkward way, shoving my hands into the pockets of Mi's sweatpants and running them along every centimeter of fabric. He shifted his weight, leaning towards me.

"Well, I guess I was wrong."

"So, you owe me a name."

"Sorry?"

"You said you'd tell me your name 'next time'. It's next time. What's your name?"

Another gust of wind caused a full body shiver, complete with a second of teeth-chattering before I composed myself again.

"Bailey."

"Bailey," he repeated.

There was a silence as I continued to be awkward and he continued to look effortlessly beautiful in a way I couldn't help but envy. His hair curled uniformly to one side, while mine was an unruly mess of waves going all different directions depending on the day.

"You know, this is the part where most people would ask my name."

My cheeks flushed darker than my hair.

"It's Cian," he supplied. He relaxed a little, shutting his bag and pushing it back. "Aren't you cold?"

I shrugged. "I'm Canadian."

"I'm Irish, but I don't stand out in the rain without an umbrella."

I swallowed and leaned back, suddenly aware of his close proximity as I noticed the way his eyes kind of shimmered in what little light there was. "Okay, so I kind of have this situation."

"What kind of situation?" He cocked an eyebrow suggestively and then started laughing at the horrified face I made.

"Not that kind of situation. Can I use your phone for a sec?"

"It died when I was on break. It gets boring when you have break alone at midnight," Cian explained. I sighed.

"Shit. Shit, shit."

"What's up?"

"I need to call my sister to come get me."

There was a long silence, during which I studied the pavement cracks and the moss that grew between them.

"Uh, I can take you home. You know, if you want." It was awkward, and I knew that. I was asking a stranger to drive me home. Okay, so I didn't actually ask him but his other option was to be the shitty person who drove off and left me standing in front of a deserted coffee shop in the middle of the night.

"You really don't have to do that. I'll figure something out."

"How exactly does one end up here at three in the morning with no phone?"

I shrugged. "The world hates me."

He rifled through his bag, pulling out a set of keys with more key rings than keys.

"Where do you live?"

Remember when your parents told you not to get in a strange man's car? Never tell strangers personal information. Yeah, fuck that.

"Near Bath and Princess."

"That's not too far. Come on," he said, nodding off towards the farther of the two cars. It was red, and old. I didn't really know cars, but I knew enough to consider this one shitty.

"The button's broken," he murmured when I tried the door, only to find it locked. He stuck the key into the driver's side and unlocked the door, then reaching over to unlock mine. I settled in and he started the car, the radio coming on and the dash illuminating us in blue. He was listening to some sort of satellite radio station that was playing a song by Fleetwood Mac. He began humming.

"What's this song called?" I asked, a lame attempt in breaking the silence that had been established between us.

"'Say You Love Me'."

"How long have you been in Canada for?"

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the song. He turned too fast and braked too slow, but there was something comforting about him despite his mediocre driving abilities.

"Well, I've been in Kingston for a year now, but I spent six months in Victoria."

"Which did you like more?"

"Kingston feels more like a home. All the old buildings and famer's markets. I guess I'm just not a big city person."

He slowed for a cat crossing the street, grey with white patches. It stopped in shock and he honked gently, the cat scurrying safely to the other side. The roads were empty except for us, the entire city shutting down at 9 PM.

The song changed and Cian rolled down the window. A car alarm sounded somewhere in the distance, and the overwhelming sound of crickets from the long grass on the traffic island filled the car. He continued humming.

"Are you in school now?"

"I finished Sixth Year back in Dublin, so I've just been... around," Cian replied.

"Sixth Year?"

"You call it Grade 12."

"Because that actually makes sense."

"You know what else makes sense? Calling pink blobs of rubber 'erasers', so then when I ask for a rubber, everyone stares at me fucking horrified because apparently that means condom here."

"You didn't," I replied.

"Oh, but I did."

He made a sharp turn at Princess onto Bath, and I gave him instructions to my house. All the lights were out except for the one in the basement; my bedroom. My house was a two bedroom, so after Gemma and I became too old to share, my parents converted the basement into my room. I had to install a sliding glass door, because apparently a full door allowed me "too much privacy", and I refused to have people walking down the stairs and straight into my room.

"I feel bad I forced you to drive me home."

He had shifted the car into park, but I hadn't moved yet. The continuous sound of his right signalling blinking overpowered the radio. He shifted his foot from the brake and the car rolled back a few inches. "If you really feel bad, you can buy me coffee sometime," he said carefully, as if he was waiting for me to be offended, or disgusted.

"Sounds fair."

He grabbed my arm.

This is how I die.

He pulled a pen from the cup holder and scrawled across the skin on the inside of my wrist.

"Text me, or whatever," Cian said as I left the car.

"I will, or whatever."