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“That's game.”
“Fuck.”
Destiny laughs as Mike holds up a peace sign with one hand, a red checker tucked against his palm, and drinks heavily from the bottle in his other.
Across from him, Russell dramatically drops his head onto the checkerboard, chuckling breathlessly.
He's drunk as hell; they all are, really.
Destiny hasn't done much social drinking until this semester, partially due to her workload and the rest simply due to not really having a place to do it; she isn't much for dancing or clubbing.
A few weeks ago, though, Grant and the rest of the coder's club invited her to hang out during their Saturday “game nights”. These typically consist of taking over the furthest room back in the fifth floor study complex, playing checkers and cards, karaoke (if Mike can find the machine), and a bunch of cheap alcohol.
It's all such a stereotype, and Destiny has enjoyed the hell out of every one so far.
Tonight has been a riot. Mike and Grant made it a point to destroy all other opponents in checkers and poker respectively, and then played each other one-on-one in increasingly ridiculous ways until someone caved; as usual, it was Grant.
She will say, she's not sure where Grant is right now.
He disappeared about an hour ago from the throng, though no one was terribly worried; he does this regularly. Between his natural introversion and his tendency to get splitting headaches, the best thing to do is often just let him seek out darkness and silence. He always comes back when ready.
It is worth noting, though, that the others often take their sensible leader’s absence to gossip; good God, they're worse than preteens.
(They're also hilarious, though, so Destiny rarely objects unless someone says something genuinely hurtful.)
During the five game nights she's attended, Destiny thinks she's heard about just about every person that the experimental coding club as a collective has ever had the pleasure--or displeasure--of interacting with.
Tonight, however, is a first in that this time some of the gossip concerns her.
“Grant wants you bad, dude.”
She startles, wordless for a moment as she looks down at Mike, who won't look back, too busy stacking checkers--red red black repeat--and then the vodka and adrenaline kick in and she's anything but silent.
“How do you know that?” she demands because she loves Mike, but the guy lives for stirring up trouble.
He rests his chin in his palm, looking, to her surprise, not smug at all, but eager. “Because he told me!”
She squints, unconvinced. A lot of people, real or otherwise, have told Mike a lot of things. “When?”
The redhead grimaces, stance sliding until he's draped over the table. The flimsy checker tower tumbles over one of the freshman's arms, but he either doesn't notice or doesn't care. “Maaaan, I don't know! Like, a month ago?”
He clumsily reaches for the bottle of vodka and takes another hard swig. “I dunno, dude, it was really late.”
Destiny is still cautious, now to another host of uncertainties. “What did he say, exactly?”
She huffs as Mike holds up his free hand and waves his finger warningly. “Hey. What happens in the dorm stays in the dorm.”
Before she can threaten him into giving her a better answer than that, he seems to think better of it, and adds, “Seriously, I don't want to betray his trust. Confidentiality and all that.”
He starts stacking checkers again, this time in a pyramid. “But he was being serious. And nice. Really nice.”
She frowns. Grant and his friends excluded, boys tend to be complimentary about exactly one thing when it comes to her. “Did he just say I was pretty?”
And to her surprise, Mike shrugs.
“I guess? I dunno, probably. He mostly talked about your research, and how you were smart and passionate and ambitious and he'd never met anyone like you, blah blah blah.”
His lips curls a little as he slides back down to lay on the table again, causing the pyramid to warp as his elbows push it out of the way. The habit upsets a lot of people, but by now, Destiny can tell when his expression means simple distaste rather than true malice, and right now it's solidly in the former camp.
Mike glances up at her, seemingly to fill in the gap her silence is leaving in the conversation. “Honestly, he likes you so much it's kinda gross.”
And suddenly, her chest aches.
It's mostly been easy so far for her to write off whatever she's been feeling for Grant. Sure, he's a good guy--he's unerringly kind, so smart that it both fascinates her and scares her a little, and terribly handsome to boot--but as long as she reminds herself that he's just a guy and guys are sweet until they don't get what they want, she's level headed.
But apparently he wants…?
Me yammering about stink bugs until three in the morning?
He thinks she's ambitious? And smart?
She's absolutely both, but it's not something that anyone who's interested in her like that tends to notice. Counselors and academic advisers, sure. Her parents, definitely. But a boy? A cute boy at that?
He didn't say a thing about her body, it sounds like, and yet Destiny finds herself feeling strangely–
Beautiful.
She feels suddenly, painfully vulnerable, even more so because she knows anyone looking can see it.
“Was he drunk, Mike?”
Mike's eyes catch hers, earnest again, and for all the times where she couldn't tell if he was lying, she knows without a doubt that he's being achingly honest.
“Stone-cold sober, Des.”
And blame the alcohol, blame the late hour, or blame the feelings that she refuses to confront, but suddenly, Destiny wants nothing more than to pick that brilliant boy's brain. Luckily, she's an independent adult who can do whatever she pleases, so, without any polite warning--
“Hey! Des! Where are you going? I wasn't done!”
--she flings herself around and starts walking in the direction that Grant usually slinks off to. The study complex isn't that complex; she's sure to find him if he's still anywhere in here.
It's an easy search. At close to three in the morning on a Saturday (well, Sunday, now) everyone is either at home for the weekend, out dancing, or already asleep.
Only one room is even occupied. The main light is out, but there's a lamp on, and she can see a figure slumped over the table within.
She barges into the dim room, uncaring of how disruptive she's being.
“Grant--”
She stops.
He's laying on the small table, squinting in the lamplight. There's a half-empty bottle of whiskey next to his arm, uncorked, and under him is his copy of–
“Are you fucking studying in here?”
He has the sense, at least, to look a little offended. “No!”
“You're reading “Advanced Code Writing for The Young Entrepeneur”.”
He sputters. “Not for class! I started thinking about corruption patterns when Jacob mentioned kill switches!”
And shit, that's annoying and endearing and she doesn't have time for either.
“Mike said you like me”, she blurts.
She almost regrets it; Grant goes stiff, anxious and maybe even a little pissed, both of which she rarely sees when he's tipsy or worse. He's usually a very easy, giggly drunk.
“He--” A verbal pause as he gathers his thoughts, though physically, he's flailing his hands around in the way he does when he's trying very hard to think and can't manage it.
Finally, he forces out, “what did he say? Exactly?”
She sighs. “He was vague. Said he didn't want to betray your confidence.”
–and a little tension visibly drops from him at that alone.
It's kind of sweet. Mike is a hard guy to communicate with, but Destiny really does believe he means well, and Grant, though they bicker constantly, seems to trust him an awful lot.
Softened, she continues, “he said you told him in the middle of the night. And that you said I was, um…”
Goddamn her, now she's shy.
However, to soothe the stormy expression that's crawling back onto Grant's face, she spits it out.
“He said you called me passionate and ambitious and intelligent. And that you think my stink bug research is cool.”
And Grant does the most endearing this he could do; he brightens.
“Well, you are! And your research is so cool!”
She preens a little; kind words out of Grant are always a treat to hear. She replays them endlessly when she's alone.
Though in the same moment, to her own dismay, she finds herself…wilting?
Hypocritically, she realizes in horror, she's actually a little disappointed. He's a wonderful, kind, supportive friend, but shit--now she's reconsidering--maybe she also wants him to look at her body and struggle to look away.
She thinks maybe, if he did it, it might be nice.
“He did also say you want me bad, though”, she continues, adding on a small, rather self-deprecating, “Not sure what that has to do with everything else”, before she can think about it too much.
“Everything else?” he asks, still a bit slow on the uptake from the alcohol.
“The being smart, and the research, and the ambition.”
He's still frowning, confused as can be–bless him, drunk Grant can be so, so dumb–so she explains, her anxiety prickling into annoyance,
“They're things for a CEO”, she explains, frustrated and ashamed. “Not a partner.”
And here, she can't continue.
There has always been this dichotomy in Destiny's life. Follow her passions and her goals or find someone who's able to love her. She usually ignores it quite well--most boys weren't of interest to her anyway--but ever since she met Grant, she's simultaneously felt so capable and yet so pretty, which is strange; after all, beauty and brains were always exclusive qualities.
She realizes too late that her weepiness when drunk has gotten to her; she's not quite crying, but it's close enough to tell.
“Hey!” Grant blurts, uncharacteristically defensive, not towards her, but for her.
Before she can come up with an explanation, to her surprise, he starts talking in a way that only drunk Grant does.
“Why would your positive traits keep anyone from desiring you? Your intelligence makes you a wonderful conversation partner and a thoughtful peer, your ambition has helped you achieve so many things--probably too many, you should sleep more--and your passion--Des--”
He braces himself on the desk so he can lean up to meet her eye.
“The intensity of your character and love for what you do bleeds into everything else. You're professional, yeah, but you're also really funny and sarcastic and patient and so nice, even when I don't know why you'd be nice to me--”
“Who wouldn't be nice to you?” she interrupts, suddenly defensive of him now, but he's still going.
“--and you always smell good and you have great taste in music, and--”
It's childish and stupid and selfish but she has to know.
“Do you think I'm hot?” she interrupts.
He blinks up at her, and for once, Destiny can't deny herself the indulgence of thinking about how pretty they are.
“Of course!”, he exclaims, “Des, you're gorgeous!”
Grant always thinks before he speaks. It's a trait that is both endearing and frustrating depending on how much of a rush she's in, but it's constant, which is why Destiny's face has gone hot.
He blurted that out. Oh, he meant that.
Grant Best thinks she's gorgeous. Not pretty. Not hot. Gorgeous. Even the word choice makes her feel more confident. Truly, it seems, he not only sees under her surface, but he likes what he sees.
Not only that, he still thinks she has other merits.
He likes her. Really likes her.
A buzzed but genuine smile slowly spreads across her face.
But at the same time she finds her footing, it seems, Grant loses his. His face falls, and he looks suddenly tired and sick and guilty.
“I shouldn't have said that”, he mumbles. “I'm so sorry. I can't--you're drunk--I'm drunk--fuck…”
He falls back in his chair, rubbing his face roughly with one hand as if he's trying to wake himself up.
Destiny, for one, is very awake right now.
“I don't care that we're drunk!” she says back loudly, trying to power her way into that noisy, noisy head of his because if she's right about this, then she needs to know, feels like she'll die questioning it.
Bold on vodka and desperation and the warm feeling in her chest that she's been ignoring for six months, she places a hand on the sticky table next to his, so close their fingers brush, and demands,
“Grant Best, do you admit to having a crush on me?”
He stares at her, eyes big, and then averts his gaze for a long moment, face laden with apprehension. He's thinking about something, hard.
She's about to do something–shake him, maybe–but then he takes a deep breath and looks up at her with steady eyes.
“Yes.”
He chuckles, some of the anxiety resurfacing, and God, it's just so endearing.
“A rather large, embarrassing crush, really.”
He can't seem to look at her anymore, ducking his head and wringing his hands, a shy, pained sort of smile on his very red face.
She wants to kiss him. She wants to laugh at him for being so shy. She wants to sit down next to him and apologize for barging in and demanding such personal answers from him, even though the subject revolves around her, and at the same time, she wants to pick his brain incessantly--hey, when exactly did you decide you like me?--
--and then before she can do any of those things, he drags himself up from his seat and closes his book, clumsily grabbing his backpack off the floor in the process, and seemingly moves to flee.
“Hey!” she yelps. “Don't you run away now--!”
But he doesn't pause, shaking his head as he struggles with the bag’s zipper, shoves the book inside.
“We shouldn't talk about this, not tonight”, he insists.
“But--!”
There's a moment where she's scared to voice it out loud--after all, being so insecure about your own desirability doesn't disappear in a single drunken night.
Then, she looks at him, one of her biggest supporters and one of the best friends she's ever had, and thinks,
I can trust you with this too.
“I like you too”, she blurts. “I like you a lot! And it's okay that you think all those things about me! They make me feel--”
She's too drunk to pick a word and too shy to say any of them, so instead, she just reaches out and pleads,
“Just--don't cut me off. Please?”
He falls still and silent again. His gorgeous eyes are dark in the dim lamplight, not cruel, but impossible to read otherwise.
And Destiny almost--fuck, her head is fuzzy, almost does something, okay?--but he places a warm hand on her shoulder, calming and entirely unthreatening, and, not for the first time around him, all the cruel, tunnel-visioned vitriol that has had to carry her for the past twenty years drains right out of her.
“I'm not running from anything except my own embarrassment”, he declares.
Then, softer,
“And I do like you.”
She reaches across her chest to put a hand on top of his. “And I like you. So there's no reason for you to be embarrassed.”
He huffs affectionately. There's a moment of warm, safe silence where they just stare at each other.
We look stupid, Destiny thinks, but a more optimistic, giddy side of her corrects, we probably look adorable right now.
Unfortunately, the moment breaks too soon.
“Tomorrow”, he insists softly, and before she can try to argue, he continues, “we're drunk and we're tired, and anything we do with the feelings we have is a conversation that you should be having with an entirely level head.”
She, to her own dismay, pouts. “Grant--”
He squeezes her shoulder so, so gently. “Not now. I don't care how sure you are of the decision right now. You could want to kiss me this instant and I'd still refuse to discuss it.”
His eyes shift a little, suddenly filled with earnestness and a deep, calming wisdom that she immediately knows is going to live deep, deep in the center of her pounding heart for the foreseeable future.
“That's not how I want our relationship to go, Des. Friendship or otherwise.”
And goddamn him, she's a little heartbroken and a little outraged, but she feels a hard tug in her chest.
Oh my God, no one has ever cared about what I have to say this much.
Worse yet, she realizes she can't fight him, she really doesn't want to. He's right, and the fact that he's choosing to be so while they're both inebriated and alone is…
Well, it's bare minimum, the sensible part of her brain provides.
But it means everything to you.
And it does.
So, trying to swallow back the tears she can feel forming again, she nods and confirms, “Tomorrow?”
He laughs, shaky and awkward. Unsure Grant is back again. “Tomorrow.”
She lets him pull back his hand, immediately missing the warmth and the weight.
“Um”, she starts, and when he looks at her, expectant but without any trace of pressure, she mumbles, “Can I give you a hug?”
Then, fumbling and adolescent and bashful, “Not in a weird way! Or even a romance way. I do like you, I promise, but--I--”
She gets distracted from her own spiral by Grant giggling at her.
“It's okay”, he soothes, “I know what you mean. And yeah, sure. Ah, no pressure of course--!”
Before he can go on a spiral of his own, she steps forward and throws her arms over his shoulders. He makes a tiny, precious sound of surprise, then carefully drapes his arms around her waist. A moment of awkward, warm silence.
She startles as sudden weight comes to rest on the crown of her head, then realizes he's pressing his cheek against her hair, and the shame turns to giddiness. She squeezes him excitedly, smiling when she realizes her heart is snug against his chest and then grinning when she hears his heart rate rise from thump, thump to thump!thump!thump!
The hug doesn't last too long, and neither do the moments after; the human contact seems to have made them both realize that they're tired.
Destiny watches him head down the hall towards his room, his gait crooked from alcohol and exhaustion, and then heads to her own in a daze. Luckily, her roommate is already asleep, so she's free to drink as much water as she can stomach, set her clock, and then flop blissfully into bed.
She expected to be wired, up all night thinking, but once she's laying down, she really only has two thoughts.
He's a good guy.
Then,
I adore him.
And then she's out.
~~~
The blare of her alarm at noon the next day is the worst thing Destiny has ever heard.
Still, she grits her teeth and rises enough to reach out and turn it off, eyes pressed shut tight against the daylight pouring through the window.
“Good morning”, a familiar voice drawls, and Destiny throws herself facedown into her pillow, blindly holding up her middle finger at the offender.
“What's with the alarm?” her roommate asks affectionately, “You always sleep in after partying.”
Suddenly, headache be dammed, she's awake.
“I wanted to get ready to go see Grant”, she explains clumsily, grabbing some ibuprofen off of her desk and gulping it down dry.
“Ooh, a date?”
It's a good-natured joke, but Destiny pauses long enough that the other girl catches on, and then catches on.
“Holy shit, Destiny.”
Relaying the entire thing to someone else makes the process of picking out an outfit and putting on light makeup much less painful. By the end, Shay has whipped up several helpings of hangover cure and she is positively delighted.
“I knew he liked you”, she insists as she follows Destiny to the door. “Tell me everything, okay?”
“I will”, she laughs, giving her a small wave.
The short walk to Grant's place ends with her fizzing with energy. She knocks hesitantly, then a little louder, then, after rolling her eyes, louder, because she feels bad but goddammit, she cannot wait.
Rustling. The thud of feet hitting the floor.
The lock clicks!, the door opens lazily, and she can't help it; she squeaks.
Grant looks terrible--and adorable.
He’s got on a wrinkled hoodie with a logo that's worn so thin she can't read it and sweatpants that have bleach stains on the knees. One side of his hair is trying its best to stick straight up, but it's greasy enough that it mostly just seems to be laying in a limp arc. He's squinting rather aggressively at her; his glasses, God bless him, are sitting in a very crooked way that seems to be impairing his vision, though, it might also be the hangover.
“Oh!” he exclaims, voice surpassing gravelly and landing squarely in rocky--God, he sounds like shit--and she can't help but giggle as he instinctively tries to fix his hair.
“That's useless, you need water”, she laughs, and she's relieved when he does the same.
“Yeah. I haven't seen a mirror yet but I know it's bad.” He then glances at her, eyebrows raised. “How the hell are you so…?”
He seems to search for words and find nothing. Eventually, he just waves her up and down as she giggles.
“...not hungover”, he finishes lamely.
She shrugs. “I mean, I still feel pretty bad. I just got up and got ready before coming over.”
And isn't that an embarrassing confession: I shook off a wicked headache so I could get dressed nice in case you still wanted to date me.
Hoping to distract his tired brain from that awkward truth, she holds up the twin bottles she brought. The stuff inside smells like heaven, tastes like shit, and hydrates the hell out of you.
“I brought hangover cure”, she offers good-naturedly.
He groans, rubbing a hand under his glasses to worry at a sleep-blurry eye as he steps aside, blindly gesturing her inside. “God, you're an angel. Sorry it's a mess in here.” He goes to sit on his bed with enviable ease, the long-legged bastard.
She shrugs wordlessly, trying not to get distracted–gosh, angel sounds good on his lips. “Man, no one's dorm looks good past October.”
Honestly, it's not that bad. She only has to move a couple things off of Mike's desk chair in order to sit down, facing the wrong way so she can lean forward against the backrest.
Speaking of which,
“Where is Mike?” she asks, glancing at the young coder’s unmade, empty bed. After half a year's worth of hearing him gripe over how romance does nothing for him, she'd expect him to come home, even after drinking as much as he did. "Not to insult him, but I didn't think he did one night stands. Or sex at all, really.”
“Oh, he doesn't”, Grant replies with a crooked, tired smile. “Quite the opposite, really. The bastard likes to argue himself to sleep when drunk.”
Destiny can't help but bark out a laugh. “You're kidding.”
“I'm not! He tried to do it with me a few times when he first moved in, but I'm a terrible debate partner when I'm buzzed. I like dark and quiet--”
“--and Mike is neither”, she laughs.
“Exactly. He usually goes home with Jacob and Russell because Jake can sleep through a bomb going off and Russ loves to fight almost as much as Mike.”
Destiny knows them all pretty well by now, but there's still something endearing about the way Grant talks about them, so candid and so loving all at once. She never gets sick of listening.
There's a brief stretch of silence where they both nurse their drinks.
“So”, she begins, feeling a bit stupid and juvenile now that there's daylight involved, “you like me.”
He nods, clearly shy, and she can't help but tease a little.
“What was it you said yesterday? That that crush of yours is large and embarrassing?”
He sinks a little into his jacket, absolutely adorable. “I did say that, yes.”
Then his gaze goes warm and mischievous. “And you said something about…liking me too?” he asks knowingly.
She buries her face in her arms. Jerk. “Yeah, I did.”
“Well then, it seems we're in, um. Agreement.”
She lifts a hand to brush her braids aside so she can peek at him. He looks about as delightedly flustered as she feels. “It looks like we are.”
More silence, this stretch no less calm than the last, but Destiny finds herself getting antsy.
He likes me. I like him. So--?
“Sorry, I have no clue what we're supposed to do now”, she blurts, too comfortable with him to really feel shame over it.
Grant's eyes go big and bright, and he begins swinging his feet a little quicker where they're crossed at the ankle. “Me neither! Not to sound like a cliche, but I've, uh, never liked somebody this much before.”
She chuckles. “Yeah. Same.”
Grant tosses his head back and takes a long drink from his cup of cure-all, and she watches in fascination. The curve of his neck is long and pale, gorgeous. She momentarily entertains the idea of pressing her lips to his adam's apple, his collarbone, the crux of his jaw, wondering if he'd like it and smugly assuming he might, but then she thinks about right now, in the present, and her brow furrows.
“Is it bad that I don't want to, like, kiss you stupid right this instant?” she asks.
He laughs, leaning over so his elbows rest on his knees. “No, I know what you mean!”
Then he frowns, waving at the air around him dismissively, as if to chase his own words away. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right”, he assures in an earnest way that makes her grin again. “I do want to kiss you.”
He reaches up absent-mindedly to his temple, gives it a slow massage that makes her wince in sympathy. “However, at this very moment, I think I'd like to not have a headache anymore. And to take a shower.”
He grimaces playfully. “Besides, my breath reeks right now.”
She laughs brightly–God, it's so nice to be on the same page. “I totally get it. Honestly, it took all of my energy to come over here. I kind of want to go back to bed!”
Grant laughs too. “God, we're a pair, huh?”
Yeah, Destiny thinks with a girlish smile, we are a pair.
I think I like it like that.
He leans to put the empty cup on his nightstand--he has to jostle some things to make room--and then he falls onto his back in bed, arms crossed behind his head. He still looks hungover, but he also looks cozy. Happy. It's a good look on him.
She feels her face go warm when his eyes land on her, though he immediately glances away.
“Did you maybe…want to go get food later?” he proposes.
She's so dumbstruck by him actually asking that her first instinct is, regrettably, to laugh and deflect a little.
“Wow”, she teases, “that's a romantic way of asking. Would you like to walk there in the same direction but ten feet apart too?”
To her surprise and dismay, he looks suddenly, crushingly guilty.
“Oh, Grant, honey, I didn't mean it!” she yelps, so panicked that she's screwed everything up that she doesn't even notice the way he flushes at being called honey.
“Sorry. I'm sorry. I…”
She presses her face into her arms again. “I got overwhelmed. I do want to go out with you, I promise.” God, why does she do that?
“No, no”, he interrupts, “You're right.”
He laughs softly, and she can hear the brush brush brush of him fidgeting with his own hands again. “I got overwhelmed too. I didn't want to come on too strong.”
He takes a deep breath, lets it out--she smiles at this; he's so thoughtful--and then asks, “Can I try again?”
She snorts, shrugging good-naturedly. “Sure. You know I'd go out with you anyway though, right?”
“Hm. I know.”
Then she hears him shift back upright and get off the bed. She tilts her head up a little, hair parting naturally so she can see what he's up to, and she's surprised to see that he's gotten close, standing about a foot from the chair she's sitting on.
He holds out one hand, upturned, a shy smile on his face; equally out of her element, she places hers in his, palm down.
“Destiny”, he asks, soft and surprisingly weighty, “would you do me the honor of going out with me?”
And oh, she can't deal with this--Destiny has never bowed to the advances of boys--but God, she goes soft as newly fledged butterfly wings.
She's truly, deeply charmed.
“I'd love to”, she whispers, terribly vulnerable, but then she looks up at Grant, who's smiling like he's been handed the moon, and the softness feels less like a burden and more like sharing a lovely, lovely secret with someone she adores.
His face goes nervous again.
Cautiously, he lifts her hand a bit, bending down to fill in some of the distance created by both their height difference and the fact that she's sitting. He peers through his bangs at her, all blonde hair and scratched glasses and blue, blue eyes.
“May I?”
It hasn't quite dawned on her what he's planning, but she nods anyway, and then he lifts her knuckles to his lips--
--oh!--
--and Destiny has to swallow a gasp because she knows he'll stop if she does.
The kiss is achingly delicate and so sweetly chaste that Destiny has half a mind to cry. Unable to come up with anything to do in return, she simply pulls her hand to her chest, thumb absently stroking over where his skin met hers, and whispers, “Thank you.”
“It's my pleasure”, he returns, eyes shining, and for once, she believes it without even a glimmer of doubt.
He climbs back onto the bed and asks, “So. Um. Where would you like to go? I can pay.”
Destiny huffs, laughing at herself. “You don't have to do that. And can I be honest?”
He nods, and she admits, “I'm pretty sure I've had enough excitement for the weekend. How do you feel about just going to the dining hall later?”
He laughs incredulously. “I mean, anywhere is fine by me as long as, y’know, you come with.” His expression goes soft and sweet again. “That does sound relaxing, though. You have the best ideas.”
They sit in comfortable silence for another while. The sun is warm through the window and the chair is steady under her cheek and the sweetest person alive is here with her; naturally, she grows drowsy almost embarrassingly quickly.
Grant looks the same, alternating constantly between dozing and staring adoringly at her, so she suggests, “I think I might go home soon. I need to sleep.”
He laugh sleepily. “Yeah. I need to shower. I can't be taking such a lovely lady out looking like this!”
She wrinkles her nose, indignant at his lack of confidence. “You look--!”
Well. He's handsome as can be to her, but in terms of his superficial appearance alone?
…actually, she hates lying to him.
“Um”, she finishes lamely, already giggling.
“Oh, thanks!” Grant cackles.
After another moment or two of lamenting having to get up and walk, Destiny drags herself to her feet and makes her way to the door, Grant's presence steady behind her.
“Wanna meet at like…?”
She glances at the clock hanging crookedly over Mike's bed.
It says 9:03. It is not 9:03.
“How the hell do you two know what fucking time it is?” she blurts, laughing.
Grant shrugs, unbothered by what is clearly routine to him. “Well, time does pass constantly. All you have to do is add the difference back to the incorrect time!”
He takes an annoyingly short pause to do the math. “It's 1:47.”
She shakes her head affectionately. “Wanna meet at, like, 4:45 so we beat the line?”
He frowns for a moment, still struggling a bit to think through the haze, and then his eyes go big and excited as it hits him.
Sunday is campus spaghetti night, and for all the mediocre food the dining hall has, their meat sauce is to die for.
“Spaghetti night is perfect for a date!” he beams. “God, you're so smart.”
Destiny tries and fails for the millionth time to force down the flush heating her face; after all, she really did pick the dining hall mostly because of the lingering headache behind her eyes.
Luckily, Grant and his endless fount of ideas distract her.
“I do still insist on paying”, he says as he unlocks the door and steps aside to let her out.
“You don't have to”, she says, biting back a smile, then lets it out as she laughs, “Besides, how would you pay for me at the dining hall?”
He taps his temple, grinning playfully. “Swipe my card twice.”
She laughs, incredulous. “We both have unlimited meals.”
He shrugs. “I have my ways.”
“Alright, Best”, she teases, turning to gently shove him in the chest and laughing when he stumbles a little.
He meets her eye, and there is something wonderfully fond written all over his face.
For once in her life, Destiny feels completely deserving of it.
“Meet you then?” he asks.
And it's such a generic question, really, but it means so much, and so she lets the gooey warmth in her chest break free and ooze through to the rest of her until she feels like she may very well be glowing with it.
“Meet you then.”
Grant shuts the door, locks it, and Destiny very presentably walks herself to the elevator and presses the button for the ground floor.
Only once the doors shut does she drop the act.
She does a delighted little dance that makes the elevator cables creak angrily and then, purely self-indulgent, she squeals.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
She feels very smart and very passionate and very desirable and very, very pretty. Holy shit, he likes her back, he likes her back!
By the time she makes it to the room and manages to tear the door open, she's practically vibrating.
“He asked me out”, she exclaims without any preamble at all, and Shay screams, which makes her start squealing all over again, and it's stupid and overdramatic and juvenile and she doesn't care because her best friend is here with her and somewhere, two floors above her, a beautiful boy is getting ready to go on a date with her.
Destiny has been tired for a very long time.
But right now, she feels simply bioluminescent, pulsing with light and life that she doesn't think will ever grow dim.