Charlie

I knew it was going to be impossible to focus today.

My notebook is open on my desk, but instead of history notes, it's filled with messy sketches—little birds, half-drawn flowers, and a clumsy attempt at capturing James's face. I keep glancing at the clock, counting down the minutes until I can see him. The jittery feeling in my chest won't go away, like I've swallowed a bunch of live wires.

I see him between classes, leaning against his locker like he doesn't have a care in the world. His hair is a little messy, his leather jacket slung over one shoulder. He's laughing with some guys I don't recognize, but it's his eyes—those stormy gray eyes—that keep pulling me in.

I'm about to walk by and pretend not to notice him when he spots me. His grin widens, and he tilts his head in that effortless way, like he's been waiting for me all day.

"Hey, Charlie," he says as I pass.

"Hi," I manage, my voice a little too soft.

"Still good for later?"

"Yeah," I say quickly, feeling my face heat up. "I mean, if you still want to—"

"Of course I do," he cuts me off, his voice teasing but warm. "Six o'clock? The diner by the park?"

I nod, trying not to smile too wide. "Okay. See you then."

"See you," he says, his gaze lingering on me a second longer before he turns back to his friends.

I walk away, my heart racing so fast it feels like I just ran a marathon.

James

Focus. Focus.

Nope. Not happening.

History's a blur. Math's worse. English? God, forget it. All I can think about is Charlie. The way he tucks his hair behind his ear when he's nervous. The way his notebook's always jam-packed with stuff he won't let anyone see. The way his eyes kind of dart around like he's scared of being caught looking at the world too closely.

I've never been this... fixated before. It's weird.

By the time the final bell rings, I'm practically sprinting out the door. Home. Change. Something decent, but not like I'm trying too hard. What even is trying too hard? Leather jacket stays. Always. Jeans... maybe not the ones with holes the size of Texas.

My mom glances up when I grab my keys. "Date?" she asks, smirking.

"Yeah," I mutter, ducking out before she can start asking questions.

Charlie

The diner is cozy, the kind of place that smells like syrup and coffee. It's quieter than I expected, which is a relief.

James orders a milkshake and a plate of fries for us to share. I get coffee, mostly to have something to do with my hands.

We talk about everything and nothing—school, music, his jewelry designs. He tells me about the first piece he ever made, a bracelet he twisted out of scrap wire he found in his dad's garage. I tell him about the sketches I keep in my notebook, the ones no one's ever seen.

"You should show me sometime," he says, his voice soft but steady.

"Maybe," I reply, trying not to let the idea scare me too much.

He smiles at that, like he knows he's wearing me down.

James

He's got this way of looking at me. Like he's not even sure I'm real. Like he's trying to memorize me but doesn't want me to notice.

I don't know why it makes my chest feel tight.

By the time we finish the fries, it feels like we've known each other for years instead of days. We walk out together, side by side, and it's freezing—our breaths puffing out in little clouds.

The park's empty, just the two of us and a bunch of bare trees. I shove my hands in my pockets to stop them from fidgeting.

"So, you're an artist, huh?" I say, trying to fill the silence.

"Sort of," he says. "I don't show people my stuff."

"Why not?"

He shrugs, his cheeks pink from the cold. Or maybe something else.

Charlie

He grabs my hand first.

It's sudden, but not unwelcome. His palm is warm against mine, and for a second, I forget to breathe.

We stop walking, and he steps closer. My heart's hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it, but I don't care.

"Can I?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

I nod. My lips part to say something—anything—but the words never come. His lips are on mine before I can think too hard about what's happening.

At first, it's soft. Hesitant. Like we're both testing the waters, unsure where the edges of this new thing begin or end. His lips are dry, slightly rough, but it's not unpleasant. It's real. Honest.

I let my eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, the world narrows down to this—the cold air around us, the faint smell of his cologne, the warmth of his hands as they move to my waist. He pulls me closer, and I let him, my fingers gripping the front of his jacket like it's the only thing tethering me to the ground.

Then, something shifts.

The kiss deepens, growing bolder. His hands slide from my waist to my back, pulling me flush against him, and I can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. My own hands find their way into his hair, tugging gently, and he exhales a shaky breath against my lips.

My nerves dissolve into something else entirely—heat, electricity, a wildfire spreading through my veins. The cold is forgotten, replaced by the warmth of his body, the press of his lips, the way his fingers curl into the fabric of my coat.

I tilt my head, letting him take the lead, and it feels like we're speaking a language only we understand. Each touch, each movement, says something words can't. I feel his hesitation melt away, replaced by a quiet urgency that mirrors my own.

When we finally pull apart, I'm breathless, my cheeks burning despite the cold. He doesn't move far, his forehead resting against mine, his breath ghosting over my lips.

"Wow," he murmurs, his voice low and a little dazed.

"Yeah," I reply, because I can't think of anything else to say.

He laughs softly, and I feel it more than hear it. His hand lifts, fingers brushing my cheek, and I lean into the touch without thinking.

"So, tomorrow?" he asks, a teasing lilt to his voice, though his expression is anything but playful. There's something vulnerable in his gaze, like he's handing me a piece of himself and hoping I won't break it.

"Tomorrow," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

James

I don't think.

I can't. If I think too much, I'll stop, and I don't want to stop.

The moment our lips touch, everything else fades. There's no sound, no cold, no world outside of him. Just Charlie. His mouth is soft, warm against mine, but I can feel the slight tremble in it. Or maybe that's me.

I move slowly at first, careful, almost scared I'll mess it up. But then he kisses me back, really kisses me, and it's like the ground beneath me disappears. My hands find his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer. God, I didn't know it could feel like this—like gravity's gone and I'm just floating.

His hands tangle in my hair, and I swear I forget how to breathe. It's not just a kiss. It's something bigger, something I can't name. Something that burns and soothes all at once, a wildfire and a lifeline.

I deepen the kiss without thinking, the edge of hesitation slipping away. He lets me, his lips parting just enough for me to taste the faint sweetness of whatever he had earlier. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of him—the hitch in his breath, the soft noise he makes when I pull him closer.

It's messy, unpolished. We don't know what we're doing, not really, but it doesn't matter. There's nothing else but this. Him.

When we finally break apart, it's like surfacing from underwater. My chest heaves, lungs desperate for air, but I don't care. My forehead rests against his, and for a second, I just stay there, my eyes shut, my hands still holding onto him like he might disappear if I let go.

"Wow," I breathe. It's stupid, not even close to what I want to say, but it's all I've got.

He looks at me, cheeks flushed, lips red, and nods. "Yeah."

I laugh, and it comes out shaky, a little too loud, but he doesn't pull away. If anything, he leans closer, his gaze softer now, like I've said something right for once.

"Tomorrow?" I ask, because I need to see him again. I need more of this, more of him.

He smiles—a small, shy thing that makes my chest ache in the best way—and says, "Tomorrow."

And just like that, I'm done for.

Charlie's Diary Entry

February 5th, 1986

Dear Diary,

It happened.

I don't know how to describe it, not in a way that feels big enough, true enough. But James kissed me. Or maybe I kissed him. I don't know who started it—does it even matter?

It was everything. More than I thought it could be. His lips, his hands, the way he looked at me after, like I was something worth holding onto.

I've never felt like this before. Like I'm standing on the edge of something huge, something I'm terrified of but can't walk away from. He's... different. Not just the way he looks, though I'd be lying if I said that doesn't make my heart race. But the way he makes me feel—seen, like I'm more than the quiet kid with the notebook.

We made plans to see each other again. Tomorrow. And for the first time in a long time, I can't wait for what comes next.

I think—I hope—this might be the start of something good.

Charlie