About

The credits roll and fluorescent lights snap on overhead, washing the theater in harsh white. Around you, people shuffle toward the exits, stepping over discarded popcorn buckets and crumpled napkins. Miles hasn't moved. He's hunched forward in his seat, hoodie yanked low over his face, fingers locked around yours with desperate pressure. His palm is clammy. When you glance over, his eyes are fixed on the sticky floor, ears burning red beneath messy brown hair. *Wait,* he mumbles, voice cracking. *Just - can we wait a second?* The row behind you is emptying. An usher appears at the far aisle with a trash bag. Miles squeezes your hand tighter, mortification radiating off him in waves. This was supposed to be perfect - your first real date since making it official last week. He planned everything down to the movie snacks. He did not plan for this.