༺ SEVENTEEN ༻

"Sonya, which one?" I hold up two outfits. One, wider pants with a casual shirt and a cardigan, the other one a loose jumpsuit.

She looks up. "I don't know."

Frustrated, I groan. Nervousness has been bawling up my stomach the second after I woke up and realized it's Tuesday, and now it's exploding inside of me. "Just tell me what to wear at the fair!"

"A chicken suit," she says coldly.

"Sonya!" I slam a hand on my forehead. "Okay. Let's do it like this... what do you think Thomas would prefer?"

"Nothing."

I run the same hand down and when it meets my neck, I have the urge to strangle myself for a second. "Please just answer the question! Think! Place yourself into Thomas's view."

"I answered the question," she corrects. "I said he'd prefer nothing. No clothes at all."

My whole face gets red, yet I scowl. "Funny," I say. "I'll ask Mom, then. She'll be my wingwoman."

I see Sonya rolling her eyes, but before I know it, my feet have automatically ran myself to Mom, who's in the kitchen.

Concern is written over her face already. "Love, you're standing in your lingeries in the kitchen. It's dark outside and the curtains aren't closed."

I move the curtains. "I need help! I'm like desperate right now, and Sonya isn't helping. What do I wear to the fair? What do you think Thomas would like?"

She keeps mixing whatever she's baking. "I think you should choose whatever you like, Rose."

"I'll like what Thomas likes," I say. "Jumpsuit or pants?"

"I like jumpsuits," she says, smiling lightly. "You're gonna wear black one?"

I nod. The jumpsuit has wide pipes and long sleeves, along with a v-neck. So it's simple but not boring.

"Can you do my hair?" I ask. Through the nervousness, I'm still feeling enough excitement to get ready properly and look nice. "Please?"

"I'm baking cookies."

"Newt!" I hop over to the couch, where he's attempting to make an Instagram account. "Would you please mix the dough? I'll bless you forever."

He mumbles something that I take as a yes, so a few minutes later, Mom is curling my hair.

"So... curling your hair just to go to the fair, hm?" A laugh escapes her mouth. "You don't even curl your hair to go to parties. Sure this is just a friendly activity?"

My stomach has been twisting a lot lately, and especially now. I shrug in reply, then wince because she's pulls my hair too hard.

"What do you want it to be?" She wonders.

My nose scrunches up. "My hair?"

"Keep the head with the conversation, love." Mom laughs. "I mean going to the fair with Thomas. Do you want it to be a friendly activity? Or maybe a date?"

I'm too busy thinking about Thomas to keep my head with the conversation.

Is he asking his dad to put gel in his hair too? Does he have outfit stress too? Has he been looking forward to tonight the whole week just like I did?

I don't bloody know!

"Eh." I wipe my sweaty hands against my thighs. "I don't know. He's Newt's friend so it would be weird if it's a date."

"But you can't think with that mindset." I think she's pulling my hair on purpose now. "What do you want?"

"Eh," I say again. "A nice night at the fair?"

Mom sighs: she's probably sick of me, but she knows I'm like this when I'm nervous. "Just do whatever you want, alright?"

"Get drunk?"

I definitely don't want to get drunk, but I like joking about it.

"Maybe not that, but..." her tone gets mysterious, "...it would make you able to check if Thomas is a real gentleman."

"Of course he is. He makes sure I eat and he opens doors for me," I answer casually.

Mom chuckles. "Just let go of the 'Newt's friend' part and wonder what Thomas is for you."

"You're a really good advice giver, Mommy," I comment. "Thank you. Also, Thomas is a lot of things for me. My favorite, he's my window mate."

"Your window mate?" She repeats.

I point at my window without looking. "There." A pause. "Is he in his room?"

"Uh, I don't think that's Thomas," Mom says. "Isn't that Newt's friend... Minho?"

"Oh, that's possible." I nod, but then, I frown. "Did he forget we're going to the fair? Is he bringing Minho? I declined when Newt and Sonya asked because I thought Thomas meant just the two of us! Oh, gosh."

It's not that I don't like Minho, because I do, but... I don't know.

"I'm sure he isn't bringing Minho," she assures. "Don't worry too much."

❤︎︎

Mom was right.

Or well, I don't see Minho when I meet Thomas outside, and he looks bloody good.

It's nothing weird, really. Just pants and a white sweater. His hair seems even messier than usually, but something makes me think that's his way of styling it, and he did spent time to make it look good.

Because it does.

To me, at least.

I laugh when he takes my hand and places a kiss on top of it, like a real gentleman.

Told ya.

"You look great," I blurt out.

I can't be embarrassed by it, because I know it's not even the truth. He looks more than great.

Man, he looks divine. And I'm not overreacting.

Has he always looked this good? Did he change something about his appearance?

I have no idea. My mind's cloudy and fuzzy and everything.

"You do too," he says, not letting go of my hand after kissing it. His eyes have the twinkle again, and I try not to stare at it like a creep. "Let's go, Blondie."

Surprised because I expected us to go with the car in case the weather got bad and it already is a little cold, I look at him. "We're going on foot?"

He looks right back at me. "Unless your feet hurt from the dancing."

"Not really," I say, shrugging. "But you know, it's cold even with a coat on, and you never know what weird, maybe drunk, people walk around at night."

Says the one who jogged back through the dark and then got in the car of someone she only knows as her brother's friend's friend.

A deep grins grows on Thomas's face.

"What?"

"Maybe," his thumb grazes the back of my hand, "it indeed gets colder, but there's always a guy who wouldn't mind offering his jacket. And if problematic people decide to show up, there's always a guy who can fight."

I wish my body allows me to scoff or do anything to show how ridiculous it is, but all I can do is blush and feel heat rise everywhere.

I manage a smile. "How romantic of you, Thomas."

"I know right." He grins another time as we start walking. "But I mean it."

My hand tightens around his. "Nice to know."

I have the urge to rub the back of his hand like he's doing to me, but I don't. Though I'm wondering if it's possible to love someone's hands, because there's just something about Thomas's.

"You're the lady." I get confused at his words and mostly when he moves me aside and takes my place on the sidewalk, so he's the one next to the road.

I scrunch my eyebrows at him, but he doesn't say anything and his expression just shows happiness and satisfaction.

Then, he clears his throat. "Let me get one thing clear."

My eyebrows are now raised.

"Tonight, we're not going to mention ballet, hockey, Sports, Janson, or anything that has to do with it," he says sternly. "Agree to that?"

"Sure." I shrug, then look at Thomas again. "And what if I do? Or you?"

He tilts his head up for a second, thoughtful before his lips curve. "Loser gives the winner a massage."

"Just like last time," I say, but it's not a question. I think I said it a little dreamy, too. Don't mind thinking about when I accidentally fell asleep on his couch.

"Just like last time," he confirms.

"And what if both of us mention it? Whoever does it first? And if you've already lost, you could choose to mention it again. It won't change a thing."

I overthink too much, even in these situations, I know.

"Two minutes of massage for the other per moment you mention it," he decides. "Deal?"

I squeeze his hand. "Deal."