Chapter Text
Belly Conklin is on a first date, and it’s the best first date she's had in a long time.
Is it the best first date she's ever been on? No, not by a long shot.
But he’s smart and funny and asks her questions about herself, too, which is way more than any date of hers has done in a long time.
He’s deep in a story about one of his friends, an unexpected late night he’d had as a result of living in New York City.
That happens sometimes, and it’s one of the things Belly loves best: one minute, she’ll be sitting on the couch watching the latest episode of Love Island, the next minute, her best friend and roommate Conrad will text her to come meet him out at the bar he works at.
An hour later, Belly, Conrad, and Conrad’s friend/coworker Agnes will be out at a different bar, drinking and dancing. (Agnes and Belly will be dancing at the bar. Conrad usually occupies their table, guarding their drinks and appetizers while browsing one of the many Lord of the Rings subreddits he follows.)
A few hours after that, late into the night but not so late that the sun starts to rise, the three of them head back to Belly and Conrad’s apartment to eat pizza on the floor and get into a heated debate about the current state of their the characters in their Dungeons and Dragons campaign.
(Agnes and Conrad debate the state of the characters in their campaign, because Belly is always too tired to debate at this point in the night. She lies with her head on Conrad’s shoulder instead, falls asleep to his and Agnes’s soft voices discussing whether or not the latest villain they beat was actually evil or merely misunderstood.)
“I don't see the point in spontaneity,” Belly’s date, Cam, says, and it's so jarring that it pulls her from the memory of the warmth of her and Conrad’s living room, his arm wrapped around her shoulders, wisps of her hair tickling his jawline.
A record scratches.
She's not in her living room with Conrad and Agnes. She's sitting across from a guy at a bustling, brightly-lit restaurant, their plates empty.
Of course, her brain hisses. And to think, it had been going so well.
“I love the spontaneous magic that comes with living here. What don’t you like about it?”
Cam leans back in his chair. Their waiter comes by, and glances at the bill, nods to himself, then hands over his card. “I guess I never thought about it.”
She laughs in disbelief. “You just said you didn't like it.”
“Why don't you show me around the city?”
Her nose wrinkles on instinct. She isn't trying to be pretentious; this is important to her, and she can feel her guard going up. “That's not how it works. You have to let the magic find you. It just . . . happens.”
He looks confused now, just in time for the waiter to come back. He signs the bill with a flourish, tucks his card away in his wallet, then stands and holds out his hand.
Belly takes it gingerly. His hands are clammy, and she has to work to keep her face perfectly neutral.
“What do you mean?” he asks as they step outside, onto the noisy street.
“Like, my roommate and I will be sitting at home,” she starts, and Conrad materializes in her mind once again, his shoulder nudging hers as they laugh, and the press of his shoulder against hers is warm. The floor lamp in their living room makes the scene hazy, and it feels, almost, like it's happening to someone else, even though it's happened to Belly before. “And our friend will text that she's at the movies and we should come, too, so we do. After the movie, we meet up with some of her friends, and go to a bar that we've all been talking about going to. It's early morning now, and we head out for pizza, then go home and watch the sun rise before we fall asleep.”
Cam is quiet for several seconds. They're standing outside the restaurant, and cars rush past, spraying water from a puddle. It’d rained while they were inside, and the concrete sparkles from the rain and the streetlights.
“That's really cool,” he says. He’s about the same height as her, and he looks at her, then leans in a fraction. “You're really cool, Isabel.”
Isabel.
It's the name on her dating profile, yet it feels oddly formal, because no one calls her that.
She smiles, leans in toward him, and then they're kissing.
It’s a fine kiss. Actually, now that she's thinking about it, Cam is being too gentle, his fingertips lightly pressing against her cheek.
She asks for more and he gives it to her, presses against her harder, kisses her deeper.
And then she pulls away, gasping.
“I can't,” she says, which, what? This is what she wants: a nice date with a nice guy she can get to know. Isn't it? She opens her eyes slowly, like she's afraid of what she’ll see, and there's Cam, hands in his pockets, looking disappointed. It doesn't hurt as much as she thought it would.
“Is there someone else?” he asks softly. Worse, he's kind about it. Like he’d understand if she's still hung up on an ex or thinking about a date she had last week.
She shakes her head. “No, I just—” She doesn't have the words to explain it, not here, on the sidewalk outside this nice restaurant with this even nicer guy. “I can't. I’m sorry.”
“It's okay.” Cam gives her a small, sad smile, and steps away from her. “Have a good night, Isabel.”
“You, too.”
With that, he turns around and leaves.
The truth is: She's scared.
She's scared to find her person, because she doesn't feel ready. That's why she was so adamant about putting herself out there, about going on dates even when she doesn't feel like it.
It's not even that she's inexperienced in bed.
She's had sex. She likes having sex. It feels good, great, even.
Belly masturbates. She has a whole collection of sex toys that live in the top drawer of her nightstand.
She knows how to make herself feel good.
She's just also scared of having sex. Scared that, deep down, she doesn't actually know what she's doing. That someone will call her out and say, wow, you're a terrible kisser or actually, your hand doesn't go there.
Cam likely would have been patient, and kind, and helpful if she'd just told him.
She can't.
She's afraid she’ll sound stupid. Too in her head.
Belly stands there for a few seconds, disappointed even though she's the one that rejected him, then pulls up her group chat with Conrad and Agnes.
Belly (7:39p.m.): Are you both at work?
Conrad responds immediately. Yeah, we’re thinking of going out after. How’s your date?
It started out great, ended . . . Ugh. I’ll tell you when I see you. I’m on my way to you. I might stop at home first and change. Can I borrow one of your sweatshirts, Conrad?
You know you can, Belly. We’ll be here :)
The smiley face makes her smile despite the bad date (and his you know you can, Belly sends a shiver down her spine that she ignores because it's just, like, a result of a passing gust of wind, surely). This bad date is one of many she’s had so far this year, the result of a New Year's resolution that she’s going to meet the love of my life this year. I’m manifesting, Conrad. Don't laugh. Manifestation actually works, you know. Just look at Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift. He’d wanted to meet her, and they're married now. Ergo, manifestation at its finest.
She’d made that resolution while the two of them were drunk off pomegranate margaritas, Conrad’s specialty that he only makes once in a blue moon. Usually only if Belly asks.
He’d looked at her from his spot next to on the couch, hair tousled from running his hand through it while they watched a horror film, his cheeks flushed from the margaritas. His expression was so earnest, yet he was smirking, his eyes bright.
Pretty sure that’s not how you use ergo in a sentence, he’d replied, laughing when she flipped him off.
Needless to say, she hasn't met the love of her life. She hasn't even come close.
It’s the beginning of September, so it's chilly, and she pulls her fluffy baby pink jacket tighter around her shoulders as she treks to the nearest subway station, wishing she had worn a heavier coat.
Dating in the city is hard. The only fun part about it is telling Conrad (and Agnes, when she's around) and seeing his reactions to the things guys tell her. Last week, she’d gone on a second date with a man who works at the Guggenheim, and he’d been so kind that she was starting to let her guard down. And then he mentioned that he still lives with his ex, because “neither of us could afford to move out right now, you know? But we’re not together.”
She believed him for half a second, until he started bringing up his ex at every possible opportunity. She’d stayed for the end of dinner only because the restaurant had an incredible dessert menu, where her date managed to talk about his ex four more times: She loves lemon cake. I made one for her birthday last year and nearly burned it, but she was so grateful, and it was just so nice to do that for her . . .
When she relayed this story to Conrad at the bar later, he smiled and, already reaching for various ingredients, said, “I know just the drink for this situation.”
Not five minutes later, he’d presented her with a lemon drop martini.
“In honor of the ex’s favorite lemon cake,” he'd said, grinning as he handed it to her.
Their fingers brushed as she took the glass from him, and her teeth sank into her bottom lip, trying to fight the flush creeping onto her cheeks. “Oh, fuck off.”
“You want me to?” He’d only grinned wider, his eyes bright with laughter he was clearly holding back. He wiped his large hands with a dish towel before throwing it over his shoulder, walking away from Belly with exaggerated slowness, his hands raised in surrender. “Okay, Belly.”
She didn't break eye contact with him as she took the first sip of her lemon drop, and then she threw her head back and gave an exaggerated moan. “Fuck, that's good. You can come back.”
His eyes flashed, and his grin shifted into a smirk as he walked back toward her. “Oh, you're giving me permission? How thoughtful of you.”
Now, when she reaches her and Conrad’s apartment building, Belly climbs the four flights of stairs, and although she likes this dress (it's one of favorites: black, falls to her mid-thigh), she wants nothing more than to be in leggings and one of Conrad’s oversized hoodies.
They've been friends for so long—technically, he was friends with her brother first because Steven and Conrad met in their college’s dining hall while Belly didn't meet Conrad until winter break that year—that she kicks her shoes into the closet and hangs her coat, then heads to Conrad’s room.
His door’s already open, but she stands in the doorway for a few seconds, taking in his neatly-made bed, the bookshelves filled with fantasy novels and medical textbooks from the days when he thought he wanted to be a doctor, the posters from various concerts he's attended and movies he likes.
She steps inside his room, tiptoeing like she isn't supposed to be in here, her toes sinking into the rug he’s covered the hardwood with.
And then she's standing in front of his dresser, surveying the top shelf. There are a few framed photos: one of him and his mom before she passed, another of him, Belly, and Agnes at a recent Knicks game.
A bottle of his cologne sits between the framed photograph, and before she even realizes what she's doing, her hand is reaching for it, and then she sniffs it, momentarily drowning in his scent. Her eyes flutter closed and her shoulders immediately relax.
An image comes to mind: Conrad, spraying this exact cologne onto his wrists, shirtless, looking at Belly as she lies on his bed, his eyes bright, his mouth smeared with her lipstick, the sheets tangled around her legs—
“What the hell?” she murmurs, her eyes snapping open. The cologne bottle clatters when she sets it down, and she stares at herself in the mirror for a long moment. Her lipstick is actually smudged, so she takes a tissue from the box on the dresser and wipes it off, then crumples it in her hand.
Is it her? There have been kisses at the end of dates, she's gone home with a few guys, and it’s she keeps waiting for it to feel exciting, or fun, or . . . magical. Like something out of a romantic comedy. That almost primal desire that has her clawing at clothes, or her thoughts running wild with the two of them in various positions, or her hand between her legs as she thinks about what she and her date could be doing.
None of that has happened.
She felt more from that fleeting mental image of Conrad, shirtless—
Nope.
With a hard shake of her head, she opens the middle drawer, grabs a royal blue crewneck with the Knicks logo, then leaves the room.
The second she's in her own room, she stands there, her heart pounding and her head spinning.
What was that?
It was nothing, she decides, shaking her head again as she takes off her dress, changes into the borrowed crewneck and a pair of black leggings.
It doesn't mean anything, she thinks, as she heads down the hall to the bathroom, throws away her used tissue, washes off her makeup, pats her face dry. That image appeared because she was standing in Conrad’s room, sniffing his cologne, which she still has no idea why she did. The crewneck smells like him, and she inhales deeply, surrounded by the scent of his woodsy cologne and his body wash and the detergent he uses.
She stares at her reflection again, in the bathroom mirror this time.
After a moment, she realizes she’s waiting for another image to appear, Conrad behind her or stepping out of the shower or on his knees in front of her.
It doesn't.
Belly takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders.
It was just a fluke.
Which is for the best.
He's her best friend and her roommate.
She can't think about him like that. Doesn't want to think about him like that, even though, yes, he's stupidly, unfairly hot, and okay, fine, he's stupidly, unfairly her type, but that doesn't mean anything.
It really doesn't.
I can't think about him like that, she thinks to herself, even repeats it to her reflection: “I’m not going to think about him like that. I can't.”
Great. Now she's talking to herself. Practically coaching herself out of, what, finding her best friend hot?
Ridiculous.
He is objectively hot.
That's all.
If she's scared to have sex with someone she met on a dating app, the thought of having sex with someone she knows is—
Actually not a bad idea.
It's low stakes.
It certainly wouldn't mean anything. Belly’s comfortable with Conrad, so she’d be comfortable in bed with him, too.
This would be a purely transactional situation.
What would Conrad get out of it? her brain asks.
Well.
Okay.
She doesn't have an answer to that.
So, she heads to the bar.
Conrad and Agnes work at a bar called The Manhattan Bar, named after the drink, a play on the fact that the bar is actually in Brooklyn and not Manhattan. Belly’s spent so much time there that the rickety bar stools and the sound of ice being shaken in cocktail shakers makes it feel like a second home.
The Manhattan is only a few subway stops from her and Conrad’s apartment, so she heads back out into the early September air, the material of his crewneck thick enough that she doesn't realize she forgot a coat until she's walking into the bar and the first words out of Conrad’s mouth are:
“You're not wearing a coat.”
He’s slipping an olive onto a skewer, the olive pinched between his thumb and middle finger, his face tilted toward what he's doing but his deep green eyes focused on her.
As always, he's standing behind the large, circular bar, a white dish towel thrown over his shoulder, his dark brown hair falling at his temples. His gaze is as analytical as always as he looks at her from where she’s stopped a few feet away from the bar.
Belly rolls her eyes and slips onto a bar stool. It’s Friday, a rarity that it's not crowded. She's the only person on this side of the bar, though there are people scattered around it, laughing and drinking. “You don't miss a thing.”
Conrad’s eyes snap back to his work, his hand already reaching for another olive, one corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. “It's kind of my job not to.”
Oh.
Oh.
That's . . .
Fucking hot, her brain supplies.
Her breath hitches. Does he notice? God, she hopes not. And she can't even blame it on alcohol, because she hasn't had any. At least, not yet. What the hell is wrong with her? Why is she thinking about Conrad like this? Is she catching a cold? “What?”
“It's my job to notice things.” About me? she wants to ask, but then he continues. “You know, generally.”
“Generally.” She swallows hard, and her face is so, so hot with—is that embarrassment? No, it can't be. This is just a fluke. “Right.”
“I’m a bartender, after all.”
“What does that have to do with noticing things about me, though?”
His smirk fades, but his lips stay parted, like he’s surprised by the question. They stare at each other, him on one side of the bar and her on the other.
Yeah, her face is definitely flaming with embarrassment. Why did she say that?
Yeah, why did you? her brain whispers. Do you wanthim to know?
Belly pushes that thought away. There's nothing for him to know.
“Belly,” he starts, and her heart pounds. What's he going to say? Is he going to call her out on it, going to—? He clears his throat, and her thoughts quiet. “I always notice things about you. You’re . . . you're my best friend.”
“Of course.” She sets her chin in her hand, nods to the olives, pushes away the disappointment she feels, because there's no reason to be disappointed. He's right: they’re best friends. He’s making a dirty martini, by the looks of it. (Belly’s knowledge of cocktail making is still mediocre at best, despite years of watching Conrad and Agnes make them in front of her.) “Is that for me?”
His smirk is back, though he seems more stressed than usual, his shoulders tense and the serious, focused way he's fixated on his drink. The bar isn't crowded, and he doesn't even get this stressed when the bar is crowded. “You know that's not how this works.”
“What do you mean?”
He adds a third olive onto the skewer, then drops the skewer into the martini glass. Without saying anything, he heads to the corner of the square bar and hands it to the woman sitting there—she has a sleek bob and a handbag sitting on the bar in front of her and is chatting to one of her friends, but her eyes slide over to Conrad’s when he appears, and Belly swears her cheeks flush—before he's back, leaning his elbows on the bar and studying Belly with the same attention he’d given the olives: intensely focused.
Something is definitely up.
“I don't make you a drink until you tell me about the date,” he says after a long moment. “That's the deal.”
Internally, Belly groans. When she’d first made her New Year's resolution (something she doesn't even really believe in; that had also been the pomegranate margaritas doing, apparently), Conrad had said he’d make her a drink to accompany each date as long as she told him about it.
As if she wasn't at The Manhattan enough, she's now always here after a date, and, as promised, he makes her a drink.
“I did tell you about the date. It was fine.”
One of his eyebrows raises. “Tell me more.”
The words are softly spoken in the space between them, and for the second time tonight, something Conrad’s said—this time, it's not a text—sends a spark down Belly’s spine.
“We don’t have rules.” Belly taps her fingers along the wooden countertop.
“You said you kissed. How was it?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it.
The thing is . . .
The thing is.
Conrad has never, not once, asked how a kiss went.
The words rush out of her, almost as though if she talks fast enough, she'll forget the shivers from Conrad’s words and his question. “The kiss was fine. You know, it was a kiss.”
Wow.
Stellar explanation.
“‘It was a kiss,’” Conrad repeats. “What do you mean by that?”
“I think you know what I mean by that,” she grumbles.
“Humor me, then.”
Her eyebrows furrow as she thinks back to it. Her thoughts about him have rattled her so much that the kiss with Cam feels like a thousand years ago.
“He was very nice about it. I just . . .” She pauses, takes a deep breath. “I got scared.”
“Scared how?”
“I don't—I can't explain it.”
“Try,” he says simply. He smiles, soft and warm. “It's just me, Belly.”
“Okay, it's like . . . You know the yips? That thing that’s mostly associated with athletes, where they suddenly can’t do a very basic thing, like throw a baseball or finish a bar routine?”
Conrad nods encouragingly, so she keeps talking.
“It's like that. I’ve had sex before, I like having sex, but the second I think about it, I get so in my head that I worry I actually have no idea what I’m doing and the person I’m with is going to laugh at me.”
He stares at her for several seconds, and then he says, “If anyone laughs at you, they're an idiot.”
“But what if I don't know what I’m doing?”
“You do.” He shrugs one shoulder, like it's not a big deal. “But if you don’t, then practice.”
She laughs. Out of all the things she expected him to say, that wasn't one of them. “Practice? How? I masturbate.”
“That's not—” He coughs once into the crook of his arm. “That's not what I meant. Now, tell me about this date.”
She does.
While she talks, Conrad listens intently, not in the half-distracted way he listens to everyone else, keeps half of his attention tuned to listening for any patrons calling his name.
No, when Belly talks, she gets the full force of Conrad Fisher’s attention.
When she's done talking, he stares at her for a long moment, his chin in his hand, his silver watch winking at her in the lights of the bar.
He glances at his watch, then back up at her. “I’m done in thirty minutes. Do you want to get drunk tonight?”
“I really, really do.”
“Can I join?” another voice says. Agnes Novak, Conrad’s coworker and one of Belly’s fastest friends, comes up next to Conrad, her wild red curls pulled into a messy bun atop her head.
“Obviously,” Conrad and Belly say in unison.
He looks at Belly, his green eyes sparkling. “I know exactly what your drink is tonight.”
She grins. “I didn't even have to ask.”
“You never do,” Agnes quips once Conrad’s headed off to make Belly’s drink, shaking her head. “The two of you are on another level, I swear.”
Belly snorts. “It's called being friends, Agnes.”
“You and I are friends, and Conrad and I are friends. It's not like that.”
“It’s not like what?” At the question, Belly can't help but laugh. “Nothing’s ever going to happen between us.”
If only Agnes knew what they’d just talked about. The sex practice. How Conrad never actually told her what he meant by that.
That doesn't mean anything, obviously.
It can't.
It won't.
“You're wearing his sweatshirt.”
Belly holds her arms out, the sleeves falling past her hands. “Because they're oversized and comfortable.” And smell like him.
“I’m right,” Agnes says cryptically. “You'll see.”
Before Belly can ask what the fuck that means, someone calls for Agnes, and she's gone.
Conrad returns a minute or so later, slides a shot glass in front of her. The rim is covered in rainbow sprinkles, and Belly grins at him.
“It's a birthday shot,” he says, grinning back at her.
“It's not my birthday,” she says, but she takes the shot and throws it back. It’s sweet and strong, and the warmth of it immediately flows through her.
He rolls his eyes, smirking. “I know that, Isabel. Obviously. I also know how much you love cake, so it seemed like it’d cheer you up.”
“It did.” She grins, happy, warm, loose. It feels good, being seen by him in a purely platonic way. So platonically. She isn't thinking of that moment in his room or the fact that she's wearing his sweatshirt or the sex lessons or about whatever moment they had when she first got here, because it wasn't a moment. Not like that. “Thank you. Can I have another?”
Belly has a new plan: Get so drunk that she forgets all about her thoughts of Conrad.
Surely that'll help.
Thirty minutes later, Conrad walks over to Belly, on the outside of the bar this time, Agnes right behind him.
“Ready to go?” he asks.
“Conrad!” Belly launches herself at him, practically toppling off her bar stool and throwing her arms around his neck. He and Agnes had given her drinks, but also made her drink water and eat some, too, because they know how much of a lightweight she is.
She hadn't realized how drunk she was until now, when she's pressed against him. She's very drunk, but she feels great.
Best of all? She isn't thinking about Conrad at all.
“Oh, you're drunk,” he whispers into her hair. His voice is so warm and so soft and only meant for her. She feels like the only person in the world, and she presses against him, buries her face in his chest. “Belly, come on. We have to go.”
“Give me a sec.”
His arms wrap around her, and he hugs her. And then he murmurs, “One.”
“What?”
“That was one second. Time’s up.”
“You're rude.”
“You're drunk.”
She sighs and curls further into him, suddenly so, so tired that she can't keep her eyes open. “Conrad?”
“Yeah, Belly?”
She giggles brightly. “You're really warm.”
He laughs softly. “That’s probably sweat. I need to shower when we get home.”
“You'll be too far away,” Belly whines, and it'd be embarrassing if she thought about it, but she's not thinking about it. She's not thinking about much at all, except for how she doesn't want to let go of Conrad any time soon. “What will I do?”
His hand comes up to her hair, and he caresses it so softly, and the sounds of the bar fall away. If Agnes says anything, Belly doesn't hear it. “I have a feeling you'll be asleep.”
“No, I won't,” she protests, pulling away and blinking up at him. “Look, I’m perfectly awake.”
“Oh, yeah? Let’s go home.”
She lets go of him with an incoherent grumble, and smirks at him. “See? I’ve totally got this.”
“Belly, you haven't even moved.”
She steps forward. Well, okay, she stumbles, because the ground is clearly out to get her, but her second step is more stable, so is the third one after that, and she's got this, she’s totally—
Just run into an empty table.
“Come on,” Conrad says, and then he’s lifting her off the ground and bridal-style carrying her out of the bar.
Her arms wrap around his neck, and she looks at him through her eyelashes. “You don't have to carry me.”
“We’ll never get home otherwise,” he quips.
“That's not true.” Belly yawns so widely her jaw cracks. “I’m an excellent navigator. Even while drunk.”
His chest rumbles as he laughs, and he maneuvers them through the front door, which Agnes is holding open for them while laughing. Belly sticks her tongue out at her. “Watch your legs.”
Belly jolts awake as Conrad shifts, his arm tightening beneath her legs. She hadn't even realized she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
“Hold on,” he murmurs. They're outside their unit now and he's pulling his keys out of his pocket with one hand while holding her with the other. He's no longer carrying her bridal-style, but rather, both of her legs are wrapped around his waist, and her arms are still around his neck. “I’ve got you, Belly.”
“You carried me home?” she asks, mystified, pressing her face into his chest.
He laughs again, still soft. “No, Agnes and I took an Uber. You’ve been out the whole time.”
“Did I do anything embarrassing?”
“Besides not letting go of me when we got into the Uber, and then insisting on climbing into my lap to sleep more? No, not at all.”
His tone is light and teasing, and yet, she still frowns and pulls away, her cheeks flushed.
“‘M sorry,” she says, blinking slowly as he unlocks the door and pushes it open. “I didn't mean to embarrass you.”
He’s already shaking his head, smiling softly. He pauses near the front door to take off his shoes and thank Agnes who closes the door behind them.
“You didn't, don’t worry. You could never,” he says, looking down at Belly. His lips press to her forehead, and her eyes flutter closed. Is this a dream? It feels like a dream. “Not a dream.”
“I said that out loud?”
“Yeah. I’m going to set you on the couch now, okay? I need to shower, but I’ll be right back.”
“Promise?”
He sets her down so gently on the couch, and her legs stretch out, taking up the whole length of the couch. He smiles at her, delicately brushes her hair out of her face. “I promise.”
He pulls away and the loss of him is immediate, a cold gust of air rushing into the space between them.
Belly bites back another whine.
“Thank you,” she says instead, cupping his cheek.
He smiles at her, quick and gentle and so fucking lovely that her heart squeezes. “You're welcome.”
Her hand drops from his face but they smile at each other.
Within seconds, she's asleep.
When Belly wakes up again, the first thing she registers is that Agnes and Conrad are talking softly.
The second thing she registers is that her throat is so, so dry.
She sits up and drags her hand over her face, groaning softly.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Agnes jokes. “Nice of you to join us.”
Belly blinks, and her eyes open.
Agnes and Conrad are sitting across from each other on the floor, their side profiles facing the couch. Agnes is drinking a canned vodka lemonade, leftover from a summer party, while Conrad’s absentmindedly fiddling with the label of a pumpkin beer.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. His hair is wet, and he's changed into a Radiohead t-shirt and a pair of black sweatpants.
“Tired,” Belly says, “and I need water.”
He’s already standing before she can say anything. “Come on, I’ll get you some.”
Wordlessly, she follows him to the kitchen.
He’s pouring her a glass of filtered water when she reaches the kitchen, and then he presses it into her hands.
“Here you go.”
“You didn't have to do that.” She isn't drunk anymore, just tired, and the warmth radiating from his hands still pressed against hers, his large hands covering hers, makes her want to fall back asleep. “Not after everything else you did tonight. You know, lending me your sweatshirt, carrying me, letting me fall asleep on you.”
His gaze drops to the sweatshirt, and he lets go of one of her hands to pinch the fabric between his fingers. “It looks better on you.”
She flushes. “You're drunk.”
She swears his eyes darken. It must be a trick of the light. “I’m not drunk, Belly.”
His voice is calm, and her heart is beating so fast. Can he hear it?
“Conrad, I . . .” She has no idea what to say. Kiss me? That's absurd. He wouldn't do it, just like she wouldn't ask.
Besides, Agnes is in the other room.
He steps toward her, his socks shuffling against the tile, his hand around hers lifting the glass to her mouth. “Drink. You'll feel better.”
“I already feel better,” she murmurs, her cheeks burning even more. “From the sleep, I mean.”
“Good.”
Good.
Belly drinks, the ice cold water sliding down her throat, suddenly desperate to hear him say that word again. It pings around her skull, sends another shiver down her spine, and her head tilts all the way back so she can keep drinking.
Conrad doesn't take his eyes off of her.
She knows this because she doesn't break eye contact, either.
She pulls the glass away from her mouth, breathing hard.
“You have . . .” He gestures to her bottom lip.
Her tongue darts out to swipe the water away. “Did I get it?”
He leans in and swipes the water away with the bottom of his shirt. The fabric is warm, and she's stunned. It’s maybe the most intimate thing that has ever happened to her, which feels simultaneously ridiculous and also like the truest thought she's ever had. “There.”
“Thank you,” she whispers, her breath ghosting over his shirt, which is still pressed into her lip.
Before she can do something stupid, like bite down on his shirt or take each of his fingers into her mouth while continuing to make intense eye contact, he pulls away. In her periphery, his hand falls to his side as though nothing happened.
“You're welcome,” Conrad whispers back.
She swallows hard. “I should probably go to bed.”
She's practically vibrating out of her skin. There’s no way in hell she's falling asleep right away.
And yet, she can't stay out here with him and Agnes and act like she's fine, like her entire world hasn't shifted on its axis.
He nods. “I should get back to Agnes.”
Neither of them moves.
And then Belly blinks, and the moment—whatever the fuck this is—falls away. Outside, a siren wails.
“Thanks for taking care of me.”
He hums softly, and his hand comes up to her face again, though this time he brushes her hair away. “You're welcome. Do you want more water?”
“That’d be great.”
He pours her a second glass from their filtered water pitcher, then fills it with tap water from the sink so that it can filter again.
“Goodnight,” she says softly, resisting the urge to brush her lips over his cheek. Or over his lips.
“Sleep well, Belly.”
With that, she turns and leaves the kitchen. She says goodnight to Agnes and heads to her room, shuts her door behind her.
She sets her glass on her nightstand, the water jostling slightly from the movement.
And then she presses her fingertips to her bottom lip, where Conrad’s shirt rubbed against it.
Her eyes close, and that moment replays in her mind over and over until she falls asleep.
Sleep is fitful; she tosses and turns, her feet kicking off her comforter but tangling in the top sheet, her hands grasping at the sheets and her pillowcases.
She doesn't dream.
When she wakes up again, sunlight is streaming in through her window, reflecting gray off the wall.
Her head is clear, thank God.
Her mind replays last night’s greatest hits for her: getting drunk, Conrad carrying her out of the bar, waking up still in his arms.
A door creaks open, and footsteps pad down the hall toward her room.
She holds her breath, waits to see if they'll keep going toward the kitchen or the bathroom.
The footsteps stop right in front of her door.
Followed by a soft knock on her door.
And then: “Belly?”
It's Conrad.
Of course it's Conrad.
She’d woken up in the middle of the night to hear him saying goodbye to Agnes, which means that he's the only other person here.
“One—” Fuck, her throat’s ragged. She clears her throat, sits up with lightning speed. “One second!”
She runs her fingers through her hair on the way to the door.
She opens it, and there he is. Wearing a gray t-shirt and navy blue shorts.
“I’m about to head out for a run,” he says, yawning. He runs a hand through his hair, tousling it. Belly feels absolutely nothing, which is good. Yesterday really hadn’t been anything to worry about. “Bit of a late start, but before I did I wanted to make sure you're okay.”
“Yep!” The word is too cheerful, too bright. He stares at her, his eyebrows furrowed. “I’m so good. So fine. I slept, like, the best I ever had. Best sleep ever, yay! Who got drunk last night? Not me!”
Oh God.
What the fuck?
He blinks, and then his hand comes up her face, and, oh, fuck, he's going to touch her again, and—
The back of his hand presses against her forehead.
“You're not warm,” he says as his hand falls, though he looks concerned. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Totally. So okay.”
“‘So okay,’” he repeats slowly, like he's testing out the words.
“Yep.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
As she follows him down the hall, she has an idea.
It takes three days for her to bring it up. It’s Tuesday night and they're sitting on the couch, eating dinner, when she finally gathers the courage.
“Conrad?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you give me sex lessons?”
He chokes on his water. When he looks at her, his eyes are wide. “What?”
“I've been thinking about what you said the other night. About how I should . . . practice. And then I was thinking, well, maybe lessons would help. It doesn't mean anything, obviously. I'm not, like, into you or anything. I just—I feel comfortable with you, and this seems like a good way to practice.”
He stares at her for a long, long time. Takes another sip of water, doesn't choke on it this time. “You want me to give you sex lessons.”
Her cheeks burn. “Only if you want to.”
“Sex guidance,” he says eventually, tilting his head. “Not lessons, because I’m pretty sure you know what you're doing—”
She snorts. “I can assure you, I don't.”
“—And I’m merely guiding you. You like having steps to follow, a to-do list, right? This is exactly like that.”
“You want to make a sex to-do list?”
“Yeah,” he says. The word is soft, a promise, a secret held only between the two of them.
“How would that even work?”
“We could figure it out together. If you want to.”
“I do.”
“Good. It's settled, then.”
She grins. “A sex to-do list.”
The next morning, she practically runs into him in the kitchen.
“Hey,” Conrad says, brushing his hand through his hair.
She winces and blows out a breath, leaning against the doorway to the kitchen. “I was thinking about the sex guidance idea. What would you get out of it?”
He blinks rapidly, once, twice, thrice.
“Sorry, I just haven't been able to stop thinking about it.”
“It’s okay. For starters, I’d be helping you,” he says, shrugs. “That's enough for me.”
“And you'd have sex, too.”
He laughs, scratches the back of his neck. “And I’d have sex, too.”
“Right.”
“We don't have to do it if you don't—”
“No, no! I do. Do you?”
“Yeah.”
Belly is very aware of the fact that this conversation makes no sense.
“Great,” she says.
“Great,” he says. And then: “Give me a few days. I’ll make a PowerPoint.”
“Of what?”
He grins. “You'll see.”
That night, while Belly’s lying in bed, scrolling Instagram when she should be sleeping, she gets an email for a Google calendar event.
In the shared Google calendar they set up a few months after Belly moved in and have never actually used.
The Sex Guidance PowerPoint Presentation: By Conrad Fisher, the event says.
With a laugh, she accepts it.