My coworker Genevieve half-rose out of her chair to wave at us from across the restaurant, her smile bigger than ever. "So this is Andy," she said, when we met her at the table. Her gaze swept from Andy's eyebrow piercing and the gauges in his ears to the long-sleeved T-shirt with a race team logo emblazoned on the chest.

"This is Andy." This is my best friend in the world, who I've just been kissing in the park. "Andy, this is Genevieve, who sits in the cube next to mine. And Ara and Timothy, who are across the hall from us."

I glanced at him, but his worried expression from earlier had vanished, and he now seemed perfectly at ease, just like he always did when he was at work: brisk and confident. He struck up a conversation about Timothy's Bloody Mary as we took our seats, and somehow everyone was instantly engrossed in the finer points of Bloody Mary recipes.

"That's right, you work at a bar, right?" Timothy said suddenly, once they'd agreed that at least two olives were a must and horseradish should be to taste. He waved his cocktail straw in Andy's direction. "Sounds fun. Probably a lot less stressful than our job, too."

"Andy is pretty unflappable," I interjected, hoping Andy didn't think Timothy had just insulted him. So what if Andy wasn't a journalist? It didn't make his work worthless.

Andy cast me a quick, scrutinizing look.

"I bet working at a bar is stressful in its own way," Genevieve said. "Aren't you the boss, Andy?"

"I'm the assistant manager."

"But Bill, the owner, is practically semi-retired," I said, "so Andy does a lot."

Timothy, who had gone back to stirring his drink, shot Andy an appraising glance from under his eyelashes. "So if someone is making a scene, do you throw them out yourself or what?"

"I've never had to throw anyone out," Andy said. "Most people will listen to reason if you give them a chance, in my experience."

"You guys don't have bouncers or anything?" Ara asked. When he shook his head, she whistled. "Different in the 'burbs, isn't it? We just scooped a story about a bar fight the other day, and it was massive. Spilled out onto the street and went halfway up the block, with people still trying to hit each other. It took two police departments to split it up."

"Fall Island isn't really a suburb," I reminded them. I had tried to explain what the island was like once or twice before, but people who had never been there could not understand: the island's remoteness was both comforting and isolating. I had loved it there, but I had hated it, too, in equal measures.

Genevieve smiled mischievously at me. "The way she describes it, Kaye's practically from outer space."

"Guess that makes me a Martian, too," Andy said.

I grinned at him, a little bit of relief prickling in the tight muscles of my neck.

"How are you acclimating to being on Earth, Kaye?" Ara asked.

"Kaye likes the city, now that she's stopped getting lost," Genevieve interjected, before I could respond.

"I didn't get lost that often."

"She used to call me from the T station all the time when she first started," Genevieve told Andy. "She kept getting nervous and jumping the gun—getting off at the wrong stop."

"Fall Island really only has two roads," Andy said, shrugging. "A city would be a lot to acclimate to."

"She's doing okay now, though." Genevieve cast me an affectionate glance. "You'd think she'd grown up chasing down food trucks, to be honest."

"I'm food-motivated," I said, a little embarrassed.

Ara nudged my shoulder. "You like it here, admit it."

I did like it. I liked cities, full stop. Constant interruptions aside, I liked how busy and energetic they were, how alive; and I liked everything I could find to do and see and photograph. But most of all I liked how everything was new, not entrenched in endless sad memories and regrets. In my heart I thought I should miss the island, but I didn't. I only missed a few of my friends, and Andy. Always Andy.

I didn't let him catch my eye this time. I studied the menu, and I was relieved when the waitress finally came by to take our orders.

#

Timothy insisted that we had to see the new exhibit at the contemporary art museum out on the Waterfront. He'd dragged Ara, Genevieve, and me to this museum once before, but I felt like I couldn't gripe about going again just in case I ever wanted my coworkers to see a photography exhibit with me. Ara and Genevieve, on the other hand, could gripe as much as they pleased, and they took advantage of that with relish.

Andy of course was totally obliging, his face so pleasantly neutral and his conversation so mild and good-humored that even after we'd been at the museum for an hour or two, I still had no idea if he was having a great time or an awful time. I kept dwelling on the kiss on the Esplanade and our failed attempt at a conversation afterward. The whole thing filled me with jitters.

Ara and Timothy were bickering about the meaning of one of the more inscrutable art pieces on the wall, while Genevieve glided around the exhibit, listening to her museum-provided headphones. Andy and I stood off the side, pretending to look at a painting. Or at least I was pretending.

"After this," I said finally, "do you want to get dinner somewhere? Just us?" We needed to finish our conversation from earlier somewhere relatively private, before I blurted out something awkward in the middle of a busy museum. Something like: I need you.

He cast me another one of those puzzle-solving looks. "Sure, yeah."

I nodded and shoved my hands into my pockets.

Eventually we made our excuses to my coworkers. Ara and Timothy tried their best to convince us to stick around for a post-museum drink, but Genevieve just smiled and winked.

I led Andy to the North End, Boston's version of Little Italy, because—after that kiss—it no longer seemed worth worrying about our dinner being too date-like. We navigated past the crowds on the main drag to one of the side streets lined with apartment buildings and little shops, all dark and quiet for the night. A small brick restaurant stood at the end of the block, with a cheerful group of people clustered around the front steps.

Andy stopped me before I could head toward the entrance, taking my wrist lightly and leading me back to the end of the block, next to a wrought iron fire escape entwined with climbing ivy.

"Kaye," he murmured.

I blinked up at him. "Yeah?"

"That museum was fucking torture."

I laughed, surprised. "You don't like contemporary art?"

"I didn't even notice it. I couldn't stop thinking about this afternoon."

"Oh." I licked my lips. "Yeah. Me neither."

He reached for me and cupped my jaw in one hand, tilting my face upwards. My pulse hummed.

His thumb slid slowly across my lower lip. "I've always loved your mouth," he said quietly, half to himself. "I've had so many..." Even in the darkness, I could see him blush.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Sometimes living with you was torture, too." His deep voice pitched even lower. "Not that I didn't love it. But going to sleep down the hall from you every night..."

He truly did want me—he had wanted me even while we were living together. "I didn't know. You never said anything."

He shrugged. "Told you I suck at this."

"We have a lot to lose. That's all. It's different from asking out someone you just met."

"You're right about that." He brushed a few strands of hair back from my forehead.

"Andy," I said, "the thing is, I can't move back to the island."

"I know," he said quietly.

"It's not that I don't want—" I took a deep breath. I could say this much. I was brave enough. "It's not that I don't want to be with you. Because I do."

He met my eyes, his expression very stark.

"But I can't live there anymore," I said, in a rush. "Not now, or maybe ever. There just aren't any career prospects for—"

"I know."

"And I want to eventually move into international stories—"

"Boston is just the beginning for you," he said. "I know that, too. I like that about you. I don't want you to be someone you're not. Not for me, not for anything."

I nodded, tears prickling in the corners of my eyes. "But where does that leave us?" Long-distance, like me and Dalton? At least I knew I could trust Andy, but I'd also learned, with painful clarity, just how hard it was to be apart from him. Dating wouldn't make that any easier. I wanted to cling onto him and never let him go—now more than ever.

"I guess we should just appreciate the time we have," he said, after a moment.

"Okay." I could do that, couldn't I? In some ways, it was more than I'd ever hoped for.

#

All through dinner, we pretended everything was fine—normal, even. We talked about running and Game of Thrones and comics, and whenever our conversation started to stray to the island or to my job, we shifted it back to something innocuous.

Even still, I listened to Andy's upcoming races and thought about how I used to do every race with him.

I ate my dinner without noticing its taste, still consumed with thoughts of Andy's mouth on mine, his lips.

When the check came, I finally let Andy pay for me, and he touched my arm and smiled at me in a way that broke my heart.

Afterward, we walked a mile or so through the dark city, winding through traffic and passing crowds of people who were crossing from one bar to the next. I no longer cared about people seeing us; I took Andy's hand and when he squeezed my fingers in his, my heart fluttered as if it could soar away.

Back on my street, I caught sight of Andy's truck in the glow of a streetlight and thought about how tomorrow was Sunday and he'd be leaving. He released my hand so I could go down my tiny staircase and unlock my front door. Behind me, he sighed, and I wondered if he'd noticed his truck, too.

I didn't bother turning on all the lights in my dark apartment, leaving us instead with a single floor lamp, puddling light in the corner. I didn't know what to do with myself now that we were here, and Andy didn't seem to know, either. He dropped onto the edge of the couch next to the tidy sheet of pillows and blankets he'd slept on last night and gripped his knees. I paced, doing a loop around the living room and the galley kitchen. Then, on impulse, I sat down next to him. He smiled tentatively, and I smiled back, my chest constricting.

Last night I'd wondered about what would happen if I'd joined him on the couch, but now I knew. He'd told me he wanted me; he'd practically admitted that he'd daydreamed about my mouth.

I braced a hand on the cushions behind him and with my free hand I reached up, drew my fingertips across his eyebrow piercing, the strong line of his cheekbone, the gauge in his right ear. "I used to..." I began, my voice cracking.

"What?" His gaze was intense, fixated.

"Used to wonder what it would be like to touch you," I said breathlessly. "What it would feel like."

"Where?" he rasped.

"Everywhere." I swallowed hard, a little dizzy. "Can I see your new tattoo?"

His eyebrows creased together, just for a second.

"You don't need to feel self-conscious around me, Andy," I said, my throat tight. "You know I think you're gorgeous. I always have."

He shook his head.

"I'm serious. You were gorgeous in high school, too."

"I was shaped like a bowling ball."

"You were beautiful." I inched closer to him, until our legs were touching. "I wanted you then, too."

"Kaye." His voice was pained.

"Please, Andy."

He closed his eyes and took a slow breath in. Very deliberately, he reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it off over his head.

I couldn't stop myself from staring at him, taking in his golden-brown skin and the smattering of dark curls disappearing into his jeans. On his side, from his hip bone to his lats, was a castle turret and a shadowed dragon. The dragon was leaping from the turret, swooping upwards, with its wings outstretched, silhouetted against the sky. Its spiked tail flowed across one of his ribs, all the way to his back.

"Can I...?" I tore my gaze away from his body to meet his eyes again. "If you don't want to... We can stop."

A dark flush spread across his throat, down to his chest. "I want to."

He moved his arm to the back of the couch, and I leaned forward to trace my fingertip along the outside of the castle and up along the dragon. All I could think was, this must have hurt, before I leaned forward and kissed his side. His skin twitched, but he didn't move away. I kissed my way up the turret, followed the outline of the dragon with my mouth, traced its tail with my tongue, absorbing Andy's scent and his heat, overwhelmed with amazement and gratitude that, finally, after all this time, I could touch him.

*******

Soooo as you can probably guess, this was originally a much longer scene. ;-)  Hope it works anyway!  What do you think of Andy's tattoo? Think it means anything?

There's only one part left... Come back next week to find out what happens!

Thank you so much for reading! <3

~London