50 | Running The Traffic Lights

DOMINGO

7:45 PM

Dahlia Gray

"I feel so nervous." I confess, carrying the present under one arm while adjusting my phone in the other. Aysa is on the line, and I can hear the soft clicks of her keyboards as she types away for an assignment. I'm surprised she even bothered answering the phone call in the first place.

"Don't."

"It's not that easy," I rebuttal, admiring the pebbles left between the cracks of the concrete, accompanied with fading chalk drawings in pastel colors, covering every square inch of the block. "I'm scared he won't like his gift."

"Fuck him," Aysa replies easily, causing me to roll my eyes.

"I can't. It's his birthday."

"Well," she draws from the back of her throat, "you could technically fuck him and call it a day." She suggests nonchalantly, causing a small smile to split on my lips. The thought appeals to me, and I won't lie that I haven't thought about it before. "Call it a birthday surprise."

"Believe me: if I could, I would." I respond coyly, glancing up from the sidewalk to find the silhouette of Harlow's home coming into view, the perfect hedge-shaped bushes, and bountiful of cars lining from the driveway onto the streets. Most famously, the black Mustang.

"I find it hard to believe, with a guy who cares that much about you, hasn't made the first kiss yet," Aysa states, bringing the phone closer to her mouth, the audio growing clearer. "Do you think he likes you?"

"Well, in all fairness, he doesn't like a lot of things in life," I defend, almost adding himself included, "but if he doesn't, I don't know, it's kind of sad. There's some moments where I think he does, or when I think he's going to kiss me, but in the end, he always reminds me of our relationship."

"Asshole," she mumbles under her breath. I laugh.

"Yeah, a bit."

I reach the steps of the Soberano-Godfrey's house, noting the stillness of the air. A couple of steps away, and my anxiety heightens. It takes me a couple of seconds before I ring the doorbell, immediately taking a generous step back.

"Well, I'm here. I'll...tell you how this goes."

"Or don't, if it goes bad."

"Aysa," I whine. This is not feeding into my confidence. "You're not helping here."

"You never called me to help, you called me to vent about his present." She quips quickly, causing me to roll my eyes once more.

"Whatever. I have to go, bye."

"Bye."

She ended the call before I got the chance.

I turn back to the front, straightening my posture and pulling my shoulders back. It felt a bit stupid—how formal I'm acting, and how unnatural it must've look—but I couldn't resist. I needed to do something, to appear better, to feel different. It's Harlow's birthday, and to treat this like it's another casual Sunday felt wrong.

The door swings open and reveals Harlow; his blue eyes widen at the sight of me standing on his porch, on his birthday, uninvited.

"Hi," I greet softly, my heart lunging against my ribcage at the mere sight of him. His hair was slightly tousled in a way that appears natural and kept, brown locks falling over the hairline of his forehead, his full lips parted, and his eyes shining bright. Alive. "You're not...you're not wearing black today."

He glances down at the white sweatshirt he sported, a bit practical, but still, nonetheless, a change from the black-on-black ensemble.

"Yeah," he scoffs, his gaze connecting back with mine. "Presley said I needed to change into something different today, and the only thing we could comprise on is white."

"You look good," I compliment, his eyes glisters. I realize how my statement may have sounded, and my lungs give out, "I mean, like the color on you. I like you in black, but this is...this is a change."

Dahlia, cállate.

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, struggling to hold my gaze. "I feel stupid for saying that."

He chuckles, shaking his head, "you're not stupid."

His eyes fall to the box in my arm, and I suddenly remember why I'm here. Not to admire him in white, on the edge of his porch—but because it's his birthday.

"Oh!" I hold out the box between my hands, extending it for him to take. "Happy birthday!"

He takes the gift in his hands, and I shakily pull my palms into fists, settling them by my side. I'm afraid he's going to open it then and there, judging me on my gift-picking skills—but he doesn't.

"Thanks," he said, widening the door. "You wanna come in?"

I nod, stepping into the house as Harlow closes the door behind me. I'm acutely aware of how close he trails behind me; as I slip out of my shoes, as my eyes search around the house for any excitement—hoping to drive my mind away from the heat of his, nearing mine.

Harlow lowers himself, his lips nearing my ear, and causing an involuntary shiver to release. "How did you know it was my birthday?"

"Presley told me," I whisper, turning my head, taken back by how close we are to each other. A couple of centimeters, a breath away, and the first thing I thought of was to take a glance at his lips. "And, um," I swallow, finding his eyes once more. "I'm a bit sad you didn't tell me yourself. I thought...I thought we were better than that."

He sighs, "the only reason why I didn't tell you was because I don't fucking like my birthday," he reveals, pulling away, and sparing a glance down the hallway. "And they didn't fucking tell me they were going to celebrate."

That's understandable. "So," I draw, capturing his attention once more, "what you're saying is: if you had known you were going to celebrate your birthday—"

"I would've told you, in a heartbeat." He promises, which allows me to release a breath of fresh air. A small smile appears on his lips, noticing my relief. "I'm glad you're here though."

I replicate his smile. "I'm glad I'm here too."

He turns away from me, before his smile spreads, and directly looks ahead—probably leading where the celebration is hosted. "Are you ready to meet the family, again?"

"Always," I chuckle, just as Harlow's hand found mine, and interlace ours. He pulls me closer to him, the heat of his body rubbing against mine. It's a small act, but to feel so close to him, makes my heart feel safe.

We headed to the backyard, where the party had been set up. The fences are lined with fairy lights, alternating between flashing colors and simple white. I figure someone is playing with the remote right now, deeming which one is worthy enough to scream: Reid Harlow.

"Dahlia," I hear someone exclaim enthusiastically, turning to my right to find Nini fast approaching us, a bright smile brimming her face. "You're here! I was worried you weren't going to make it."

She pulls me into an awkward side-hug—because Harlow is holding down my hand and is refusing to let go—which resulted in me using my free arm to return the gesture. I tried to tug my hand away—more so in compliance with the formality, but not enough where I truly lose his touch, because, truth be told: he's not the only one that doesn't want to let go.

"How could I miss it?" I smile, just as Nini pulls away. "But, in all honesty, I don't think I would've known about the party if not for Presley."

She has a mischievous glint in her eyes, "lucky for Presley, huh?"

I chuckle. "Yeah."

"Nini," Harlow interrupts, drawing away the conversation at hand. He holds out the present in his hand, slightly tilting—which causes me to worry, "do you know where I can put this?"

"Oh, don't worry," she takes the gift in her hands, "I'll put it along with the rest of the presents."

His eyes slightly widen, "there's more?"

"Of course," she beams, "you think we would celebrate your birthday without presents? What type of parents would we be?"

And I can see him—slightly opening his mouth, wanting to correct them that they are, in fact, his foster parents. I almost jabbed my elbow into his side, to stop him, to not allow him to drop such a harsh reality, when he doesn't.

He closes his mouth, and nods, "thanks."

Nini says nothing but nods, and you could see her eyes brightening at Harlow. It was almost like she was unexpecting his response, but nonetheless, pleasantly surprised by it. She heads to the back, filing the present in the back somewhere, and when we lose sight of her, I turn to Harlow—an ever-glowing smile on my own lips.

"You didn't snap at her," I state, my heart bursting with joy. He looks semi-confused. "Not like you would've before."

Harlow scoffs, "I didn't feel like doing it today."

"Yeah, right." I roll my eyes, not believing his lie. "It could be Jesus' birthday, and you would still find the opportunity to snap at her. You choose not to today. Admit it."

He doesn't say anything, pressing his lips together. I take his silence as a sign of acceptance—and if it's not, I still consider it. Harlow may not see that he's slowly changing for this family, but I do. More times than once.

"Fine," I declare, pulling my hand from his. He glances down, "if you don't want to admit it, I guess I'll be hanging with Nico for your birthday—" I pause, waiting for him to accept defeat, but when he doesn't, I pretend to tilt my head in thought, "or Presley, whichever I find first."

I walk away from him, confidence pulsating through my veins with a sudden energy. I search around the backyard, my eyes dancing around to find the remaining family members—just to spot Presley in a distance.

"Hey, Presley!" I shout, catching his attention as he twists around from his spot, eyes widen at his name. He was near the greenhouse, surrounded by bodacious flowers, watering the plants. I offer a little wave at him, beginning to approach—when I feel someone grab my waist, lifting me off my feet and twirling me around in my spot.

I laugh, feeling the familiar grip of his arms. When Harlow sets me down, he buries his head into the crook of my neck, with him mumbling, "don't fucking play with me."

My cheeks flush, and I place a gentle hand on the side of his head, capturing him within my arm. When I meet his gaze, my smile is wide, and his expression is soft—almost possessive, "I warned you," I said, "you were the one being stubborn."

"You're the one fucking walking away."

"You didn't admit it," I emphasize, slipping my hand under his chin, "kind of regret it now, huh?"

He doesn't say anything, and instead tightens his grip around my waist, almost afraid to let me go. He looks like a boy, soft and innocent, and the joke was almost cruel on my end. It is his birthday, after all. "Happy birthday," I whisper, but he doesn't meet my gaze, pouting.

"If that's your idea of a birthday surprise, I rather fucking not."

I laugh once more, but said nothing else, taking in the moment. In Harlow's arms is something I don't imagine myself often to be, but when the rare occasion does present itself, I have to take in the moment—however long it may last.

"Hey, Dahlia," Presley calls, drawing the both of us towards his approaching figure. Presley doesn't bother to make contact with the birthday boy, arms wrapped around mine, and looks straight ahead to me—an easygoing smile on his face. "We're about to make birthday s'mores for Harlow, you wanna join?"

I grin, bouncing on my feet, "of course!"

Presley looks up, meeting Harlow's gaze, and with an innocent expression, "what?"

"It's the fact that you didn't even fucking ask me, and it's my birthday."

"It's because I know if I ask Dahlia, you would come along too," Presley smiles innocently, tilting his head to side, "what? I thought you didn't want to celebrate your birthday?"

Harlow removes one arm around my waist, and flips him off, to which Presley easily deflects back with his own.

He moves ahead to the firepit, taking a seat on the roundstone beside Claudia, who is teaching Ariah how to cook the marshmallows. I can feel the heat of Harlow's glare, aimed straight at Presley, beside me, and I tug on his arm once, telling him this is not the time.

He sighs heavily, the air of his heave brushes against my neck. "Come on," he mumbles, pulling away from me, but keeping his arm planted firmly around my waist. We begin to move.

"Wait!" I exclaim, a thought dawns on me once we start moving towards the firepit, and Harlow halts to a stop. He turns to me, brows furrowed in confusion, and I jab a thumb behind me," I saw something back at the table—let me go for a minute."

He looks reluctant, and I press, "it's just a minute, alright? I'll be back beside you at the firepit."

With a nod, he releases me, and the first thing I notice is the cold air that wraps around my waist like a belt, missing the warmth of his embrace. I'm getting too entangled by his touch, and if I continue to see him as a blanket on a cold winter day, I don't think I can ever let him go.

I race across the backyard, reaching the pavilion to grab the party hats I noticed set on the table. Taking two, I head back to the firepit and slip into the seat beside Harlow, who's conversing with Presley.

He didn't immediately notice my presence—but Presley did, with a crease of a smirk on his lips—and I took the opportunity to slip the party hat over his head, flicking the elastic string under his chin. He freezes.

Harlow slowly turns to me, confusion spotted over his features, and I couldn't take him seriously. I throw over in laughter, at the sight of him—Reid Harlow—in a party hat, but he doesn't find the amusement. He looks at me with a pointed look, almost bordering a glare, but never reaching the max.

"Not fucking funny," he swore, shaking his head, reaching for it. I grab his arm.

"Stop!" I exclaim, wrapping my fingers around his forearm. He pauses, looking at me through his burning blue eyes, and I use my other hand, reaching for the hat and slipping it onto my own head—allowing us to look like eleven years old attending a birthday party, together.

"This doesn't make a difference."

"It's your birthday."

"I'm not turning fucking five,"

"Actually," Presley pipes in, trying hard to hide his laugh, "on the bag, it said ages three and up. You are up."

Harlow doesn't bother turning around, and flips Presley off from behind, his eyes not wavering off of mine.

"Dahlia."

"Reid Harlow."

He was taken back from his full name being called out and I was slightly waiting for him to tell me that's not his name, and he doesn't like to be called that.

Instead, he just said: "I look fucking stupid."

"We look stupid," I correct, a smile peeking through my lips, "and we're doing it together. It's your birthday, live a little."

He doesn't say anything, dropping his gaze to the roundstone seat in contemplation, and before long, he hauls a long sighs and turns to Presley: "just fucking teach me how to do this whole s'mores shit."

"Woohoo!" Claudia cheers, raising both arms over her head, and with another greeting from Harlow's middle finger, Presley begins the mini lesson on how to roast marshmallows.

We spent an hour or two, talking over the fire and making wishes with marshmallow s'mores. It was said that Nini and Sebastian started this tradition for the kids—similarly to how many parents created the tooth fairy—and it blossomed into an annual birthday celebration.

The ideas were simple: whoever birthday it is, they have to roast the first marshmallow. If the marshmallow catches a flame, they're granted a 'wish' of some sort, blowing it out, before taking their first bite. Most times, it was said to come true.

The entire family is settled around the firepit, as Nini takes my left and Sebastian takes the seat beside her. They all circle around Harlow, waiting for the first ceremonial flame to lock the marshmallow, creating his first 'wish.'

The problem is: Harlow burnt his marshmallow.

I held in my laughter, when he pulled the stick away from the fire to reveal the crisp exterior of the marshmallow—a couple of shades beyond edible. He whips his head in my direction, blue eyes glowing, and shakes his head, hiding his own raising smile from my reaction.

Harlow doesn't say anything, as he takes his free arm and wraps it around my waist, pulling me closer against the cool stone. I nuzzle my face into the collar of his shoulder, the tip of the party hat brazing his ear, muffling my laugh as I hear Harlow say: "this is fucking pointless."

"Just because you don't know how to roast a marshmallow properly doesn't make it pointless," Claudia rebuttals, "it just makes you incompetent."

"Fuck off, Claudia," he swore, flipping his finger off with the hand around my waist. I feel the slick of his fingertips brush against my hips. "Remember when you couldn't even create a fire?"

Claudia smiles at the fond memory, an interaction I never witnessed. It seems pleasant. "Yeah, I do, actually." She pauses, "but guess what? I didn't flip people off because I couldn't do it."

Harlow rolls his eyes playfully, but a small scowl plays on his lips. I can see that he's actually more comfortable with this family than I thought he was, and whatever happened between that dinner party and now, changed him.

"Harlow, darling," Nini coos delicately, as he turns to meet her. "Just try again. There's always second chances."

With a hesitant nod, Harlow peels the burnt marshmallow from his stick and shoves another white fluff at the tip, glazing it over the fire. This time, Presley is helping him adjust his height.

In the second try, Harlow does manage to catch a flame, and he pulls back quickly, his eyes widened at this unexpected surprise. The family around him cheers, slow and steady, humming the birthday song as they wait for Harlow to make a wish.

His eyes bright and child-like, as he glances around the roundstone, soaking in the moment of the song. I don't know if this is his first birthday celebration in a while, but I do know that it's taking a lot of him to hold in the overwhelming senses of his emotions.

I lean into the curve of his shoulder, mumbling my own version of the song. My lips brushing against his collar, words fanning on his skin, "cumpleaños feliz, te deseamos a ti. Cumpleaños Harlow, cumpleaños feliz."

I can feel Harlow grin, his hand squeezing my waist as a way of acknowledgement.

He closes his eyes for a second, whispering his wish, before blowing out the burning marshmallow, saving the white in a golden crisp, melted down enough to create the perfect s'more.

The entire family cheers, and Harlow saves the moment like a breath of fresh air. He holds everyone's individual gaze, met with tender joy, and for a few seconds, acknowledging their presences and his own unfamiliar happiness.

In moments like these, I know that I've fallen for him.

━━━━━

DOMINGO

10:37 PM

Dahlia Gray

They played a round of football.

Of course, I never found much interest in the sport, and I never planned on to. When Harlow invited me to come join the family in their practice, I had to decline—almost making Harlow hesitate and want to follow in suit.

But I pushed him to play, because he seems to enjoy the sport, and just because I had a bad taste about the activity, doesn't mean I should hold him back from something he loves. Especially something that could act as another anchor for him to live.

Instead, while the entire family plays their game of football, Nico and I transition to the pavilion, picking a spot under the shade and taking a seat on the wooden patio table. I pull him onto my lap, intently listening to him as he attempts to describe the drawing he made.

Wild coloring pencils rolled across the counter, slipping off the edge and falling onto the deck, as Nico sat contently on my lap. He had a piece of paper, a babbling Spanish tongue, and slick dedication on his mind.

His shoulder slouches over as he scribbles with his left hand, a similarity I found between us. He presses his lips together, narrowing his eyes as complete concentration falls on the paper before him.

I rest my chin on his shoulder, watching over him as he doodles across the paper, covering every square inch of the white sheet. My head tilts slightly to the side, attempting to piece together the puzzle of his drawing before he has to recite the description to me once more.

There's a house, with white picket fences and an uneven mailbox that seems way too big. Green cloud bubbles representing tree bushes, and thin long brown boxes representing the logs. I could piece together small stick figures and flowers sticking from the edge of the backyard—and the realization dawns on me.

He's drawing his family.

"Aw," I muse, causing Nico to stop for a second and spare a glance over his shoulders. He meets my eyes in a green-filled confusion. "La imagen." The picture, I said in Spanish, something I recognize Nico felt more comfortable with. "Es tu familia." It's your family.

He nods solemnly. "Es para mi hermano mayor." It's for my big brother.

It took me a second to realize he meant Harlow.

I smile delicately at him, pushing his hair back with the use of my palm and kiss the side of his temple. "Le encantará." He'll love it.

He better.

I look up from the table to spare a peak at the game being played before me, grunting and shouts minimized to background noises. My eyes search for Harlow; swiftly coursing through the bodies with little obstacles, taking the pig-skin between his fingers and forwarding across the yard with passion.

I think in another life, another time, he could've been a football player.

Harlow slips to the back of the yard, nearing the fences, and throws down the ball to the ground—accomplishment shreds through his cheer. I'm assuming he made a goal.

The rest of the family shakes their head, defeated plastered on their expressions, but nonetheless, proud. Claudia seems to be the only bitter one out of the bunch, but even with her brows creasing at their apparent loss, a small smile tugs between her lips.

Harlow is grinning. It's curved into the corner of his lips, radiating a pure happiness seen to no other. I rarely get to see that one, even with me, when he turns to the side—meeting my unsuspecting gaze—I was taken aback, by how beautiful he looks, how much carefreeness sweeps through the course of his features at this exact moment.

I couldn't help but replicate his smile, giving him a proud thumbs up with the use of my free hand. The other wrapped around Nico's stomach. Harlow stays put in the moment, not breaking our eye contact.

I mouth, "what?"

But he didn't get a chance to answer, when Presley took the opportunity and aimed the ball at him, snapping Harlow out of his thoughts with a scowl.

"Come on, birthday boy," Presley calls loudly, his shirt drenched in sweat, the faint outline of his abs clings to the cotton. "Take a shower, we're going to be opening presents soon."

Harlow drops his smile and flips his foster brother off. Presley laughs at the gesture, and as his back faces Harlow, returning back to the deck, Harlow takes the ball off the ground and throws it at him, aimed straight to Presley's back—and marks his target.

I roll my eyes.

The rest of the family makes their way to the house, cleaning up from their tiresome game, before returning back with fresh clothes and wet hair. When they did, Nini and Sebastian come back around with boxes of presents and Harlow slips into the seat next to me.

He wraps an arm around my waist, almost like it was second nature. Harlow leans closer to me, his lips closing in on my ear and a hot breath, "hey," he greets in a whisper, sending a small shiver down my spine. "Having any fun?"

I turn to face him, admiring his clean face and a faint smell of aftershave. His hair darken and wet from the shower, droplets of water form at the tips of his strands, and drips—one landing square on my shoulder. "Hi," I whisper back in return, my lips curving into a small smile. "I'm doing well here, you know, just drawing with Nico."

Harlow spares a glance down at the boy in my lap, just as Nico flips his artwork around, covering the drawing from prying eyes. This includes Harlow. "What the fuck did I do?"

I hit Harlow on the shoulder, stiffening a laugh from escaping and shaking my head. He doesn't understand that the drawing is meant as a present, and Harlow is the main one who shouldn't be looking. "Stop it, don't swear around children."

He rolls his eyes in response, but it's all playful. "You're starting to sound like Sebastian."

"Sebastian's is a lawyer, I think he knows what he's talking about," I said, recalling the memory of the police station and Sebastian threatening to sue. From what I heard, there's something processing but the exact details are unknown. A random thought occurs to me. "Harlow."

He cocks his brow at me, waiting for me to continue, "do you...do you know what you want to major in college?"

A serious demeanor falls over his expression, before he shakes his head once, "I don't fucking know if I'm even going to go to college."

I don't say anything, my lips part but no words manage to escape me. I don't know how to respond to that, knowing that college plays a crucial role in my leave. I sent dozens of applications to several schools, and whichever one accepts me, I'm moving there.

My eyes search his, realizing the detriments of our relationship by this means. If I have an opportunity to leave, I'm taking it—with or without him.

But, I really want it to be with him.

Humming in response, Nini and Sebastian draw Harlow away from me as they tell him about the presents. They come in varieties of sizes, boxes and colors, all tagged by who bought what inside the lid. As they gesture him to pick his first present to open, Nico pokes him.

Harlow turns, looking down to the little boy sitting on my lap. His expression patient and waiting, eyes wide with curiosity. Nico fumbles with the end of his pencil, playing with the rubber eraser, before sliding the drawing over to Harlow, immediately covering his face with both hands in embarrassment.

I wrap both my arms around Nico, pulling him closer to my chest, attempting to comfort him. Harlow's brows pull together, and as Nico slowly widens his fingers and watches through the slits, Harlow turns the paper around.

I didn't even notice the finishing tag at the top of the sheet, written in scribbles: To Harlow, from Nico.

Harlow doesn't say anything immediately, his blue eyes dance across the paper, taking in the entire picture. His lips slightly part, eyes growing a bit glassy, before he blinks back tears and turns to Nico, spreading a soft smile across his face.

He reaches forward, tucking his hand behind Nico's head before kissing the top of his head, mumbling an uncharacteristic thank-you.

I think Nico wins best present of the year.

The rest of the night, Harlow picks at random and opens each present. I can tell the drawing means more to him than most, as he always finishes unboxing and spares a glance down at the sheet sitting right in front of him, almost like he was afraid it would blow away.

When Harlow gets to my box, my name scrawled at the top—I didn't get the memo that we were supposed to put our names inside of the box—I grimace.

Pulling Nico close to me, Nico nuzzles the side of his head into my chest, comforting me with his little fingers wrap around my forearm. Harlow ran his fingers across the box, passing the name written in sharpie, before he freezes and turns to me.

I grimace out of embarrassment, realizing how Nico must've felt. Harlow chuckles lowly, pulling the lid off the box—before I stop him.

"Okay, look," I begin, as a forewarning, "if you don't like it, don't tell me. If you do like it, don't tell me—wait, I did that wrong."

Heat flushes through my cheeks as everyone laughs at my small mistake. Harlow included, and his—for some reason—gave me the most comfort. "I mean, if you don't like it, don't tell me. If you do like it, tell me but also don't tell me because I'm terrible at gifting and I would be really surprised if you do like it."

He chuckles, before nodding, pulling the decorative lid off the box and unwrapping the tissue paper. When he pulls out the gift, I anticipate pure distaste.

In his hands, is a small Lily, in a flower pot.

Harlow's expression is unreadable and with each passing second, fear sinks into my chest like glass shards. I had a feeling he didn't like it, but it was hard to find a gift for him that screams Harlow. The only thing I could think about was the varieties of flowers he would call me on a daily basis, remembering the first flower he ever concocted for me. I don't know if he knows the meaning behind the choice.

"Lily," he mumbles, a small smile peeking from the corner of his lips. "The first flower I ever called you."

My eyes widen, surprise surges through my veins. "You remember."

"How could I fucking not," he chuckles quietly, "I just met—" he cuts himself off, not allowing the sentence to resonate. I wanted him to continue, to know what he meant, but a deep silence follows.

Then he said, "I like it."

And that was enough.

Harlow sets the flower pot beside his drawing, and finishes the last of his presents, concluding with some classic literature written by famous women and a key to the house.

Presley told him about how he wanted me to buy him a cactus instead, and Harlow flips him off in return. It was a nice night, and as the clock ticks against the time and midnight comes closer and closer, a yawn escapes me.

I pull myself from the seat—Nico long since left my lap and headed off to bed—and

I stretch my limbs. Checking the time on my phone to read it's past midnight, and a couple of missed calls from my mother. That shouldn't be good.

I tuck my phone back into my pocket and turn to the remaining members of the family, bidding a tired wave, "thank you for inviting me over. It was really fun, and I had a nice time, but it's time for me to go home."

Presley and Claudia nod, offering me a final wave in return while Nini approaches me and gives me one last hug.

Harlow slips out from under the table, eyes lock with mine, "you want me to come with you?"

I took the offer into consideration, "if you want," I said softly, gesturing out a hand to the family, "or if you want to stay with your family, it's fine."

He doesn't hesitate, approaching my side and taking my hand in his. With one look over his shoulder, he said, "I'll be back." Then, we leave.

The moon overcasts us, shining full and bright. It was a memoir to the stars, which twinkles against the rays of the moonlight and constellations scattered across the night sky. My feet dragged with every step I took, tired and aimless, but with Harlow's hand in mine, he guides me down the neighborhood.

We didn't talk and I was too tired to say anything. I took the silence as a moment to think back to all the hours I spent at his house, laughing and smiling, enjoying the day as if tomorrow never comes.

And then I remember that one detail, the one that drops my mood quicker than anything else and sends me into a frenzy of thoughts. The idea that Harlow and I won't be anything at all after I move for college.

The cruel joke is, still, we're undefined.

"What did you wish for?" I ask softly, with a heavy heart. I turn my head, tilting up.

He looks down at me, "I thought you couldn't fucking say your birthday wish or else it wouldn't come true."

"I always heard if it's on your birthday, it won't come true," I told him, remembering the faint tales my mother and aunts told me, asking about my birthday wishes. They always did manage to make them come true. I check the imaginary watch on my wrist, "it's past midnight."

Harlow chuckles, a small smile embracing his lips. He took the idea into consideration, before a solemn expression overtakes him, soft and delicate. "I wished that I was good enough."

And the silence returns.

Our feet drag across the concrete, the sole of our shoes scraping against the pebbles and asphalts. I feel his grip tighten around my hand, almost a plead or an ask, waiting for my validation to answer him. I didn't know what to say.

We fall in front of my house, the front porch lights still on, and the dim static tv blue screen shines through the master bedroom window. I knew my mother was still up, anxiously waiting for my return, and I knew the first thing I should do is run up the porch and knock on the door, smoothening her anxiety.

But I don't.

I stood hand-in-hand with Harlow, taking in everything. His wish, his indecision to make plans for the future, the stakes of our relationship and the future. I took in everything: the details, the emotions, how much he means to me.

And I knew enough.

I pull away from his touch and grab his face, holding him within my palms. My eyes searched for his, looking through and measuring out all of his imperfections—but I failed to gather one. I stare at him, hard, and I take it all in.

I only have one life. And I know tomorrow could be a shit-storm, and one day I'll have to leave and possibly move across the country, with no access or communication to him, abandoning all I've ever known. All I've ever grown to love.

And life is so scary. Every decision I make could determine an infinite amount of outcomes, and every road I take leads to a new one. Every step feels like a step into quicksand, drowning me and taking me whole that I'm afraid to move.

I'm always afraid to move.

So, I kiss him.

And I kiss him hard.

My hands slips from his face and wraps my arms around his neck, tippy-toeing to pull him in. I kiss him with such tenderness that I feel my step is sinking into the ground, the quicksand eating me alive. It's the fear embedded into my veins and my nerves being lit on fire—until he kisses me back.

He deepens the kiss, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me closer, so close, it felt like we were mound together, missing pieces returning to the puzzle.

I smile, until I kiss him again. I kiss him like my life depended on it—because for some reason, it felt like it did. I kiss him because this is my chance, and from what I've learnt of life is that it hardly ever gives you so many chances at happiness.

Everything fades into the background, and it felt like it was us—only us. I reach for his hair, my fingers running through his brown locks and his hand cups under my chin, sending a warm shiver down my spine and pulses through my veins. It was perfect. I took in the moment, taking in this.

My shot of happiness.

When we pulled back, we were breathless and cheeks flush with heat. The silence commemorates us, the stars watching over our every move. I couldn't find it in myself to meet his gaze, and instead, stare at the concrete, head fills with a daze of reality.

Was it real? Did that really happen?

I touch my lips, swollen and warm from our kiss, that I knew this is my reality. That just happened.

I kissed him.

And now, I don't know what the hell to do.

I look up to finally meet his gaze, and I notice he was watching me the entire time. His hair slightly disheveled, his shirt wrinkles from our hold. Lips swollen, blue eyes bright. There's nothing more to say.

"I..." I begin, fumbling to meet the words. Do I tell him I love him? Do I? "I have to get inside."

He doesn't say anything, and it took a second for the words to register, before he dips his head slowly, acknowledging my leave. I hesitate to turn around and walk away, especially not knowing the thoughts racing through his head, but I do.

I twist in my heel and approach the porch, ringing the doorbell twice. It was a signal between my mother and I, acknowledging each other's return.

And it took a second, as my mother races down the steps and the awkwardness condenses between the two of us. Harlow doesn't make a step to leave, not before I step inside, and as my foot taps against the wooden porch and my hands tuck under one another in front of me—I decide one more act of spontaneousness.

I turn and ran back, tackling him into another kiss—almost sweeping him off his feet. My hand wraps around the back of his neck to guide him. It was quick, passionate, but enough to translate the words I've been dying to say.

This is real. I want you. You're my person.

And when I pull apart, the door creaks open, my mother stands at the foot of the door. She shares a look between the two of us, and despite not seeing the scene, she gathered enough context clues to figure out the situation.

"Dahlia," she spoke with authority, beckoning me to come inside. I nod, and as I tippy-toed to reach his ear to my lips, he grabs my wrist—stopping me from continuing.

"Dahlia," he croaks, his voice vulnerable and weak, "listen to your mom."

I let out a breath, before dropping to my feet, and nodding. He pulls away from my touch, waiting for me to follow after my mother, and when I do—he takes one final long look, before he leaves.

━━━━━

so, they kissed.

what do you guys think would happen next?

also, my goal for this chapter is 300 comments, cause i never had that before in this story, so i think it would be nice for their first kiss.