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The First Date

We drove to an Italian restaurant — dim lighting, candles, music low enough to make silence awkward.
It was supposed to be easy. Ava and I had shared greasy pizza in our pajamas a hundred times. But now? Now she was sitting across from me in red, and my palms wouldn’t stop sweating.

She hid behind her menu like it was a shield. “So… do I get extra points for showing up?”

I laughed. “I think you lose points for hiding behind a menu.”

“This place is too romantic,” she whispered. “It’s messing with my head.”

“That’s kind of the point,” I said, smirking.

She peeked over the menu and glared. “You’re impossible.”

When the waiter came, we both tried to sound normal, polite — which made it worse. Once he left, she dropped the act, groaned dramatically, and said, “Okay, we’re being weird. Can we just go back to normal?”

I nodded in relief. “Thank God. I thought I was going to combust.”

We laughed — the tension broke instantly.
She looked up at me, still smiling, and for a second, it felt easy again. Too easy.

When the food arrived, I tried my luck. “You know, the candlelight makes your eyes look—”

She froze mid-bite. “Did you just compliment my eyes?”

I frowned. “Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly, but her voice wobbled. “It’s just… weird hearing that from you.”

“Want me to stop?”

She hesitated, then smirked. “No, keep going. I want to see how far you’ll take this.”

Challenge accepted.

---

We finished dinner and walked out into the cool October air.
I walked her to her door, suddenly unsure of every move I’d ever made around her. Usually, I’d just follow her inside, but now even standing this close felt like something dangerous.

She caught me shifting from foot to foot. “You look terrified.”

“I’m not terrified,” I said quickly.

“You are,” she teased. “You’re doing that nervous rocking thing.”

She was right.
She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around me. Just a hug. The same hug we’d shared a hundred times — and yet, it felt entirely different.

“Thanks for dinner,” she said softly.

She went inside, and I stood there staring at the door long after it closed.
I’d made zero progress.
And yet, for the first time, I felt like I might actually have a chance.

Part 2 – Somewhere Between Friends and Something Else

Thursday night was pizza night.
It always had been. Three years of grease-stained boxes, bad movies, and the same corner of Ava’s couch.
But now it was day six of the bet, and nothing about it felt normal.

She opened the door already laughing.
“So what is this, Aaron? Another date or are we back to our regularly scheduled carb-loading?”

“Just pizza night,” I said. “Relax.”

“Good. Because if you expect me to put on real clothes for pizza, you’re delusional.”
She was wearing my old t-shirt. The one that barely reached mid-thigh.

I told her she looked good in my clothes; she rolled her eyes.
“I could get used to stealing all of them,” she said, dropping onto the couch.

I sat beside her, tried to keep my voice light. “Can I put my arm around you?”

Her head snapped up, eyebrows raised. “Oh wow, look at you being bold. You’re falling for me harder every day, huh?”

She didn’t wait for me to answer—just took my arm and draped it across her shoulders herself.

“That’s my line,” I murmured.

She laughed so hard she leaned against my chest, warm and careless.
“When did you get so corny?”

“It’s part of my charm,” I said. “Comes out when I’m romancing a girl.”

Her body went still.
“Romancing other girls?” she asked, mock-stern, eyes narrowing.

I burst out laughing. “Oh my God, you almost had me.”

She crossed her arms. “Almost.”
And then, quieter: “I’m not jealous. I just don’t want my man looking at anyone else.”

My man.
I didn’t even breathe for a second.

---

Week 2 – The Scavenger Hunt

By Monday I’d decided to up my game. I spent the entire morning hiding clues around campus—little notes tied to candy bars, each one about a memory we shared.

The first clue was taped to her door with a bag of sour gummy worms.

She opened it, suspicious. “What is this?”

“Read it,” I said, trying not to grin.

She sighed, unfolding the paper.

Where we first met—and you spilled coffee on my favorite shirt. P.S. you still owe me a new one.

Her lips twitched. “That shirt was ugly anyway. I did you a favor.”

“You literally cried apologizing,” I reminded her.

“I did not cry,” she argued, slipping on her shoes. “I had something in my eye.”

I laughed. “Sure you did.”

We retraced the steps of our friendship—the library, the coffee shop, the bench in the quad where she’d told me to switch majors three years ago.
Every stop came with a small gift and a private joke.
By the last one she had her arms full of trinkets, cheeks pink from smiling.

At the final note she read out loud:

Three years ago, you sat next to me and changed everything. Thanks for being my best friend. Now let me take you to dinner.

She blinked fast, voice soft. “That’s… really sweet.”

“Did you have fun?” I asked.

She nodded, eyes glassy. “Yeah. We’ve come so far, haven’t we?”

She hugged me tight, and I felt it—something shifting, small but real.

---

The Pumpkin Patch Disaster

Two days later I texted her: Be ready at 4. It’s a surprise.

“I hate surprises,” she texted back.
“Too bad,” I replied.

Twenty minutes into the drive she started panicking.
“You’re kidnapping me. This is how I die. Do me a favor and bury me in my monkey slippers.”

“You’re so dramatic,” I said. “It’s just a pumpkin patch.”

She relaxed instantly. “Oh. …Oh.”

I mimicked her. “ ‘Oh’? Really?”

“In my defense, I’m just a girl.”

“You’re not getting buried in those slippers.”

“Then I’m ruining this date,” she declared.

My hands jerked on the wheel. “You said date.”

Her eyes went wide, then she smirked. “Well yeah. You’re romancing me. What else would you call it?”

She was blushing. I pretended not to notice.

The pumpkin patch turned out perfect—rows of orange stretching into gold light, the smell of cider everywhere.
“Okay, this is actually adorable,” she admitted, grinning.

“I knew you’d like it.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Cocky’s my middle name.”

Her jaw dropped. “Your middle name has the word in it?”

She doubled over laughing so hard strangers stared. I stood there, trying to look offended while secretly falling harder.

She kept pointing at pumpkins twice her size, insisting we needed that one.
“You have no ambition,” she said when I refused.
“I have plenty,” I said. “It just doesn’t involve herniating a disc.”

“Boring,” she sang, skipping ahead.

And I remember thinking, I could watch her walk away like that for the rest of my life.

---

Fright Fest

On the drive back we passed a sign for a haunted-house event.

Ava froze. “Nope.”

“Oh, come on.”

“I value my life, Aaron.”

“You punched me during a movie once. You’ll be fine.”

“Fine,” she said finally, “but if I hit an actor, it’s your problem.”

Inside the barn it was pitch-black. The first jump-scare sent her flying into my arm, nails digging through my sleeve.

“I hate this,” she hissed. “I hate you for this.”

Every shriek made her clutch me tighter. By the end she had both arms around my waist, face buried against my chest.

“You good?” I whispered.

“No. I’m dead.”

When we stumbled out into the night she was still holding onto me.

“That was horrible,” she said, breathless, smiling.

“You didn’t let go of me once.”

“Strategic move,” she said. “You’re bigger.”

“Anytime,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. “Shut up.”
But she didn’t let go right away.

---

Game Night

Friday was game-night tradition. I spent all afternoon setting up her favorite board games, pretending it was coincidence.

She arrived in my hoodie again, chips under one arm.
“Nice setup,” she said, spotting the lineup of games.
Her smile turned sly. “You’re so obvious.”

People trickled in, laughter filling the apartment. When we started teams, I paired with Harvey instead of her just to see what she’d do.

“Wait, what?” Ava said. “But we always team up.”

“Trying something new,” I shrugged.

Her mouth fell open. “You’re going to regret that.”

She was fierce all night—competitive, loud, unstoppable. Every time her team won, she’d throw her hands up and look straight at me, eyes gleaming.
By midnight she was undefeated.

“Undefeated champion!” she announced.

“Lucky streak,” I said.

She threw a pillow at my face. “Luck? You’re just mad you lost without me.”

People drifted home. I started cleaning up. She stayed.
“I can help,” she said, snatching the trash bag from me before I could argue.

We worked in silence. Every time we brushed past each other, something sparked.
When we finished, she flopped onto the couch.

“Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

I sat next to her. “Oh we know.”

She grinned, then launched into a story about her psych class—some girl who asked questions just to hear herself talk.
We laughed until my stomach hurt. At some point the clock hit 2 a.m.

“I should probably go,” she said softly. But she didn’t move.

“Want me to drive you?” I offered.

She shook her head. “You’re tired. Can I just crash here? I’ll take the couch.”

“If you’re staying, take the bed.”

“No way. It’s your bed.”

“It’s fine.”

She hesitated, then murmured, “We could… share?”
The air changed.

“Share it?” I repeated.

“Just so you don’t have to sleep on the couch. We’ll put a barrier or something.”

“Towels?”

“Exactly.”

So we did. We lined up every towel I owned down the middle like a mini Berlin Wall.

“This looks ridiculous,” I said.

“Are you scared?” she teased.

“Not even a little.”

The lamp clicked off. In the dark I could hear her breathing, slow and steady.

“Goodnight, Aaron,” she whispered.
“Goodnight, Ava.”

But I didn’t sleep for hours. Every nerve in my body knew she was right there—twelve inches away and still impossibly out of reach.

Part 3 – The Line We Crossed

When I opened my eyes, sunlight was spilling across the sheets, and there was a weight on my chest.
A soft, warm, breathing weight.

Ava.

Her head rested over my heart, one leg tangled through mine, my arm curved around her waist like it belonged there. The line of towels—the “Berlin Wall” we’d so proudly built—was a pile on the floor.

For a full minute I didn’t move. I just watched the way the light brushed her hair, felt her breath rise and fall against me. My heartbeat thudded so loud I was sure it would wake her. I didn’t want the moment to end.

Then she stirred. Her whole body went tense before she slowly lifted her head.
Her hair was a mess, her eyes heavy with sleep. “Hi,” I whispered.

She blinked twice, voice rough. “Hi.”

Her gaze dropped to where we were wrapped around each other. “So … the barrier didn’t work.”

“Apparently not.”

She shot upright. “I’m so sorry! I must have moved in my sleep—this is so embarrassing.”
She scrambled to collect the towels, muttering about how ridiculous it was.

I sat up, trying not to laugh. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine,” she said, cheeks flaming. “I literally built a wall and still managed to climb over it.”

I wanted to tell her that I’d never slept better, that I’d memorized the sound of her breathing. Instead I just smiled. “You talk in your sleep, you know.”

Her head snapped toward me. “What did I say?”

I shrugged. “Something about pizza and world domination.”

She threw a towel at me. “Liar.”

Maybe. But I wasn’t about to admit she’d murmured my name.

---

A Peace Offering

The next afternoon she showed up at my apartment holding two coffees.
“Peace offering,” she said as soon as I opened the door.

“For what?”

“For… being weird yesterday.” She shoved a cup into my hand and flopped onto the couch. “I don’t want things to be awkward.”

“They’re not,” I said, even though my pulse was racing again.

“Good.” She took a sip. “Because we still have two weeks left of this bet, and I’m not losing.”

I almost choked on my coffee. “You really think you’re winning?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I know I am. You’ve tried everything and I still don’t feel a thing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Still just friends?”

She nodded firmly. “Absolutely.”

I smiled slowly. “Then why are you blushing?”

She grabbed a pillow and hurled it at me. “Shut up!”

I caught it easily, set it aside. “Okay, okay.”

She folded her legs beneath her, facing me now, eyes bright with challenge. “Admit it—you’ve lost.”

“Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t true.”

She leaned forward until she was just inches away. “Yes, it is.”

I could feel her breath on my skin. “You’re lying to yourself, Ava.”

Her eyes flashed. “I’m not lying about anything. You’re just mad because your plan failed.”

She planted her hands on my knees, moving even closer. “Say something real,” she demanded.
“What do you want me to say?”

“Tell me I’m right. Tell me you give up.”

I shook my head. “You already lost.”

She froze. “How?”

I gestured between us. “You’re on top of me right now.”

Her eyes widened as she realized what she’d done—kneeling on the couch, knees braced on either side of my legs, faces inches apart.

“That’s because you’re being infuriating,” she said quickly, but she didn’t move. Her voice dropped. “And stop smiling.”

“What am I smiling about?”

“That look on your face—like you’ve already won.”

“I have,” I whispered.

“You’re so annoying,” she breathed, leaning closer, her nose brushing mine. “So full of yourself.”

Her words didn’t match her eyes; they were soft, uncertain, searching.
And then her gaze flicked to my mouth.

“Ava,” I said quietly.

“What?” Her voice trembled.

“You just looked at my lips.”

“No, I didn’t.”

She did it again.

“You’re doing it right now,” I murmured.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her breathing quickened. “Aaron…”

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not falling for you?” she whispered, almost to herself. “This bet is ridiculous and I’m going to win.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, but her voice broke on the word.

I reached up, slow enough that she could stop me, and brushed my thumb along her cheek. She leaned into it—barely, instinctively—and the whole room went silent.

“Then why,” I asked, “are you about to kiss me?”

Her eyes met mine.
She hesitated for half a heartbeat.
Then she closed the distance.

---

The Kiss

It wasn’t gentle. It was everything we’d been holding back—three years of friendship, of pretending, of almosts.
Her hands slid up my neck, my fingers tangled in her hair. She made this small, helpless sound against my mouth that made my chest ache.

When she finally pulled back, her forehead rested against mine, both of us breathing hard.

“I fell for you,” she said softly, almost surprised at her own words.

I smiled, still dizzy. “I know.”

She laughed breathlessly. “Of course you did. You’re so smug.”

I cupped her face. “You love it though.”

She kissed me again—slower this time, deeper. “Yeah,” she whispered against my lips. “I really do.”

---

Epilogue – What Came After

We never finished counting the days. The bet ended that night without either of us declaring victory.
We still teased each other about it—who “won,” who started falling first—but it didn’t matter. The line between us was gone.

The next week she wore my hoodie again, and this time she didn’t give it back.
We still argued, still competed over board games, still made each other laugh until our sides hurt. Only now, sometimes, she’d stop mid-argument, grab my shirt, and kiss me quiet.

People asked when we’d finally started dating.
We just looked at each other and said, “After a very long game.”