The bell for lunch cut through the air like a knife, and Jeremiah didn't move.
Around him, chairs scraped, backpacks zipped, voices swelled and faded as students poured toward the doors. The usual exodus. The usual chaos. Jeremiah sat at his corner table in the library, tucked behind the bookshelf where the dust collected and the fluorescent light didn't quite reach, and waited for the noise to settle into something bearable.
He pulled out his phone.
The screen was cracked in the top left corner—a drop from last spring, when Marcus had shoved him into a locker and his phone had gone flying. He couldn't afford to fix it, so he'd learned to ignore the spiderweb of lines that cut across his wallpaper (a stock photo of mountains, because he'd never seen real mountains and thought they looked like somewhere he might belong).
He scrolled through his apps. No WiFi at school unless you were a teacher or knew someone's password. No data because his mom couldn't afford the plan with the unlimited everything. That left the offline games—the ones he'd downloaded during a rare moment of free WiFi at the public library, desperate for something to fill the hours between studying and sleeping.
He opened Kingdom Builder: Castle Defense.
It was terrible.
The graphics were pixelated and clunky, the dialogue was clearly translated from another language by someone who didn't speak English, and the "story" made absolutely no sense. Something about a dragon, something about a prophecy, something about collecting enough wood to build a sawmill so you could build a quarry so you could build a barracks so you could finally fight the goblins that had been attacking your village for thirty-seven levels.
But it was something. It was a place to put his thumbs and his attention while the hunger gnawed at his stomach and the memory of Marcus's elbow in his ribs throbbed dully.
He'd been playing for maybe ten minutes—had just upgraded his sawmill to level three, which felt like an accomplishment even though it meant nothing—when his stomach growled so loudly he was sure the librarian heard it. He pressed a hand to his belly and grimaced.
Should study, he thought. His history textbook was in his backpack. His math worksheet was only half-finished. He had an English quiz tomorrow that he'd barely prepared for.
But he couldn't focus. The hunger was a distraction, a low, persistent ache that made his thoughts fuzzy around the edges. He'd skipped breakfast because there was nothing to eat, and he'd skipped lunch because there was nothing to pack, and now his body was reminding him that peanut butter on stale bread—even sad, single-ingredient peanut butter—was better than nothing.
He kept playing. The sawmill needed more stone. The quarry was only level two. The goblins were getting stronger.
This is pathetic, he thought. I'm pathetic.
He was so focused on the screen—on the tiny pixelated villagers who walked back and forth carrying invisible resources—that he didn't notice the footsteps.
He didn't notice the shadow that fell across his desk.
He didn't notice anything until a chair scraped against the library floor, loud and sudden, and someone sat down across from him.
Jeremiah looked up.
Dre.
The red bandana was wrapped around his head today, knotted at the front, the ends hanging loose. His dreads had been pulled back, away from his face, revealing the sharp line of his jaw and the small scar above his left eyebrow—something Jeremiah had never noticed before, something that made him look less like a statue and more like a person.
He was wearing a red t-shirt. Tight fitted. The kind that clung to his shoulders and chest in a way that made it impossible not to notice the shape of him. He wasn't muscular—not like Marcus, not bulky or thick. He was just... fit. Naturally. The kind of body that came from walking everywhere and never quite eating enough and maybe doing push-ups on his bedroom floor when he couldn't sleep. Jeremiah could see the definition of his chest through the thin fabric, the way his collarbones pressed against the collar, and he looked away so fast his neck cracked.
Dre's cologne hit him a second later—something strong, something clean with a hint of spice, the kind of scent that announced itself before the person did. It was nothing like Jeremiah's stolen vanilla. It was confident. It was loud.
"Hello," Jeremiah said, and his voice came out smaller than he wanted, higher than he wanted, and he felt the blush crawl up his neck before he could stop it.
"Hey." Dre leaned back in the chair, stretched his arms above his head in a lazy motion that made his shirt ride up just enough to show a strip of dark skin at his waist. "What's up?"
"N-n-nothing." The stutter landed hard on the first consonant, and Jeremiah winced. He dropped his gaze to the table, to his phone screen where his pixelated villagers were probably being overrun by goblins.
Dre leaned forward, elbows on the table, and Jeremiah could smell him more clearly now—cologne and something underneath, something warm and human. "What you doing?"
"Playing..."
"Playing what?"
"Whatever." Jeremiah's thumb swiped across the screen, a nervous, meaningless gesture.
Dre's mouth twitched. "Playing whatever? Is that so?"
Jeremiah nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the cracked screen. "Mmhmm."
A sound escaped Dre—not quite a scoff, not quite a laugh. Something in between. Something that might have been amusement, but not the cruel kind. The kind that made Jeremiah's stomach flip.
"Anyway." Dre tapped his fingers on the table. "You not gonna eat?"
Jeremiah's hand pressed against his stomach without his permission. The hunger was a dull ache, a hollow space that seemed to echo. He looked down at the table, at the grain of the wood, at the initials someone had carved into the surface years ago. Then he looked back up at Dre—just for a second, just long enough to meet those dark eyes before glancing away again.
"Why you not eating?" Jeremiah asked.
Dre shrugged, easy and fluid. "I'm gonna go out. KFC or Burger King. Ain't decided yet."
"Oh." Jeremiah nodded. "Good for you."
"Yeah." Dre was quiet for a beat. Then: "You wanna come?"
Jeremiah's head snapped up. "What?"
Dre spelled it out, slow and deliberate, like he was talking to someone who might not speak English. "Do. You. Wanna. Come. With. Me. To. Eat."
The words landed in Jeremiah's chest like stones dropped into still water. His heart was doing that thing again—the stupid thing, the embarrassing thing, the thing that made him feel like a little kid with a crush he couldn't name.
"Huh? N-no..."
"Why not?" Dre tilted his head, studying him. "You scared of me?"
Yes, Jeremiah thought. No. I don't know.
"I—it's not—" He shook his head, frustrated with himself, with the way his words got tangled before they could reach his mouth. "I have to go sh-shopping."
"Shopping?" Dre's eyebrows rose. "Shopping for what?"
"Groceries."
"Ah." Dre nodded slowly, like pieces were clicking into place. "For your mom, I'm guessing."
"Yeah."
Dre was quiet for a moment. Then: "A'ight. I get it."
Jeremiah stared at him. The silence stretched between them, filled with the distant sound of someone turning a page in the next aisle and the hum of the vending machines near the library entrance. He couldn't stop himself. The question clawed its way up his throat before he could swallow it down.
"Why are you t-talking to me?"
Dre blinked. "What? I can't? I need a reason?"
Jeremiah didn't know how to answer that. He shrugged, small and helpless, and looked back down at his phone. The goblins had definitely won by now.
"Just because I wanna," Dre said. His voice was softer now, less sharp around the edges. "That good enough for you?"
Jeremiah's throat felt tight. "Okay..."
Dre, without moving his head, let his eyes slide sideways—checking the aisle, the door, the librarian's desk. When he leaned closer, Jeremiah could count the threads in his red t-shirt, could see the tiny mole beside his left nostril, could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"What you do in your free time?" Dre asked.
"What?"
Dre leaned back and rolled his eyes—not mean, just impatient. "Free time. After school. Weekends. What you do?"
"Oh." Jeremiah's brain scrambled for an answer that didn't sound pathetic. "Uh... nothing, really. Read?"
"That's it?" Dre's expression was unreadable. "You don't got a PS4 or something?"
"Well, no."
"Hm." Dre studied him for a long moment. "You kinda boring."
The words hit harder than they should have. Jeremiah looked down at his hands, at his small fingers wrapped around his cracked phone, and felt something sink in his chest. He's right, he thought. I am boring. I'm nothing. I'm nobody.
But then Dre spoke again.
"Nothing wrong with that, though." His voice was casual, almost distracted. "You won't be for long."
Jeremiah's head snapped up. "What—"
But Dre was already standing, slow and unhurried, pulling his phone from his pocket as it buzzed with a DM. He glanced at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard, then looked back at Jeremiah.
"Well," Dre said, "I'm gonna go now."
"Wait—" Jeremiah's voice came out sharper than he intended. Dre paused, one eyebrow raised. Jeremiah's face flooded with heat. "I mean... what did you... what you mean by that? By 'won't be for long'?"
Dre's mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. Something that lived in the space between amusement and promise. He lifted one hand in a lazy wave, already turning toward the door.
"Bye, Vanilla."
And then he was gone, the library door swinging shut behind him, leaving Jeremiah alone with his racing heart and his cracked phone and the ghost of cologne in the air.
Vanilla.
He'd called him Vanilla.
Jeremiah pressed his hands to his burning cheeks and stared at the empty chair across from him. His mind was a hurricane—questions spinning, colliding, breaking apart before he could grab hold of any of them. Why did he call me that? Does he know? Could he smell it? Was it too much? Did I spray too much?
But underneath the panic, underneath the embarrassment and the confusion and the fear, something else was blooming. Something warm. Something dangerous.
"You won't be for long."
What did that mean?
He sat there for a long time, long enough for his phone screen to go dark, long enough for the librarian to shoot him a curious look from behind her desk. His stomach growled again, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—walking beside Dre in a hallway, feeling a warm hand on his arm, hearing a voice say "Bye, Vanilla" like it was a secret between them.
Don't read into it, he told himself. He's just being nice. Or messing with you. Or both. Don't read into it.
But he was already reading into it. He was already rewriting the conversation in his head, replaying every word, every glance, every micro-expression. He was already wondering if Dre had meant to sit across from him, or if it had been random. If Dre had sought him out, or if he'd just needed a quiet place to wait for his ride.
He called you Vanilla, a small voice whispered. He noticed. He smelled you. He paid attention.
Jeremiah shook his head, gathered his things, and stood on shaky legs. He had classes to get through. He had groceries to buy. He had a life to survive.
But as he walked out of the library and into the crowded hallway, he caught a trace of cologne in the air—Dre's cologne, lingering like a promise—and he couldn't help but smile.
Just a little.
Just for a second.
Then he pulled his hood lower and disappeared into the sea of students, already counting down the minutes until tomorrow.