Page 83 of Lennox Lane

His chest shook beneath her cheek. “My bad.”

“It absolutely is.”

“You kissed me like you forgave me for at least three crimes,” he joked.

“Two misdemeanors, max,” she shot back.”

He laughed as his arms tightened once before he loosened his hold, and somehow that small obedience did more to her than the grip would’ve. After they gathered their things, the host insisted on hugging Lane, then Lennox, then Lane again. Three people asked when Lavender Haze was coming back to the mic. Someone bought them another round of drinks they didn’t touch because Lennox gave Lane one look and said, “Food,” like her emotional unraveling came with a mandatory meal plan.

That was how they ended up at Marigold’s after midnight, tucked into a corner booth beneath a humming neon sign shaped like a coffee cup.

Marigold’s was one of those diners that survived because the food was good, the coffee was strong, and the staff had seen too much to judge anybody. The booths were cracked red vinyl. The floors were black-and-white tile. The menu was laminated, sticky at the corners, and far too long to be trusted, which meant the best thing to order was always whatever the cook yelled he had left.

Lane slid into the booth, still buzzing from the open mic, her body warmed by poetry, adrenaline, and Lennox’s hand resting at the small of her back all the way from the car to the door.

He sat beside her instead of across from her.

Lane looked at him. “You allergic to personal space?” she questioned.

“Yes, next question,” he sounded unapologetic.

“At least you’re honest.”

“I’m learning that helps.”

He stretched one arm along the back of the booth, not touching her at first, just there. Lane hated that the waiting for his touch got to her. She hated even more that she leaned into him first. His hand dropped to her shoulder, thumb brushing once over the seam of her sweatshirt. It wasn’t overtly sexual, almost absentminded, like touching her had become his resting state.

The waitress appeared with two waters and a look that said she’d watched enough late-night couples to know exactly when not to ask questions. “What can I get y’all?”

Lane opened the menu. “What’s still good this time of night?”

The waitress popped her gum. “Everything. Catfish and wings. Pancakes, if you trust Lamar back there with batter after midnight.”

From somewhere in the kitchen, a man yelled, “I heard that, Keisha.”

Keisha didn’t blink. “You were meant to.”

Lane laughed. “Catfish basket for me, extra hot sauce.”

Lennox looked at the menu. “Same and sweet potato pie if there’s any left.”

Keisha gave him an approving nod. “There’s one slice.”

He looked at Lane. “We’ll take it.”

Lane lifted a brow. “We?”

“You don’t want sweet potato pie?”

“I do.”

“Then we.”

Keisha smirked. “Y’all cute.”

“No, we’re not,” Lane said immediately.

“Yes, y’all are,” Keisha replied, already walking away, “And loud about it.”