"Mmm," I moaned. "Coffee should not be this good."

The creamy sweetness melted in my mouth as Colton nodded in agreement, taking a sip of his.

Vanilla caramel lattes always did something magical to me.

We didn't have sex. I knew better than to take advantage of an emotionally vulnerable person in an unstable, unsteady situation despite how...adamant everything had progressed. After all that unraveled unraveled, we both left school midway and decided to just hang out.

But a part of me still felt unsure. The man who I had fallen in love with all these years -- wanted me? But was that all I was to him? A quick fuck?

It puzzled me, and I didn't like it. I hated it, actually.

But either way, smelling the aroma of fresh baked cookies in a downtown D.C little European coffee shop with Colton seated across from me filled me with an unimaginable joy.

It was some random Saturday and currently? I felt like I was in a calm state. Like a storm was over, and I was no longer in the eye of the hurricane. My Precalc grade was improving, the weather was perfectly transitioning from fall into winter coziness, and I had a smile on my face.

Nothing could beat that.

Plus - Colton and I hanging out in public? It felt like a fever dream. So yeah, the storm was over... except for the little fact that we had to hide.

All. the fucking. time.

We were sitting at a coffee table in a secluded booth facing away from the other tables, and although the shop was small, private, and semi-exclusive, it still had a homey feel to it.

I felt like I was living a double life. At school, the museum -- everywhere and anytime Brooke was around, I had to be nonexistent. I had to be nonexistent so that she wouldn't pick up on anything going on between Colton and I.

I felt like a celebrity running away from the paparazzi. The 'paparazzi' being guilt, shame, and a girl named Brooke Mckailey. Being next to Colton was like being in the eye of the public constantly, and I couldn't do that. 'Asha Daniels' couldn't exist in Colton Whitman's world.

"Als het niet Nederlands is, is het niet goed," a voice snapped me out of my thoughts.

I was lost so deep in thought that I had almost forgot he was replying to what I said.

"What is that? German?"

"No, but close," his eyes twinkled under the glow of the suns rays reflected through the glass windows. "Dutch."

I nodded, taking it in. "You still going to the Netherlands senior year?"

"Unfortunately. The European boroughs can't run smooth unless there's someone stationed up there. Shitty protocol," he sighed. "Might even have to relocate sooner."

I paused, confused. "Sooner?"

There was a heavy silence.

His eyes averted mine, and I could tell I had entered contentious ground. The only reason he'd have to move out of the states sooner would be because of a rapidly negative increase of his father's condition.

He didn't answer. Instead-

"You remember that banquet I always used to talk about?" he redirected the conversation. His father's Parkinson's was a touchy subject for him (understandably so), and so I let him off the hook, settling for a less than satisfying answer and delving into whatever he wanted to talk about next.

I watched as he dug through his pocket when he pulled out a large, crème color envelope and plopped it onto the table.

It was an envelope with my name written on it in tiny, italic cursive letters. My eyebrows rose.

"Wow, one second we're almost fucking in a closet and now we're on an invite-to-banquet basis?"

He froze and I had to stifle a laugh.

It was weird adjusting to...whatever this was. I could tell it was taking him some time to get used to the dynamic we had shifted in to. There would be times where he would want me to strictly be his friend, and other times where it was abundantly clear that he wanted everything more than a friendship.

It wasn't fair, but it was better than pretending. Better than hiding.

Yeah, I still had some getting used to do.

"Relax, I'm joking," I assured him to which he visibly eased up.

He shook his head. "What I was going to say was that my parents are flying in on Thanksgiving."

"Mhmm?" I coaxed, leaning closer.

"And I know your mom's working late and your siblings are staying with your aunt up north, so I'd hate for you to spend Thanksgiving all alone."

"I'm more than okay with being alone, just so you know," I commented and a smile tugged at the corner of his lip, amused.

"I'm well aware of that. However, I'm not sure if I can get through a 3 hour dinner with my family without losing my mind."

"What about Brooke?"

"What about her? I'm asking you," he responded without delay.

I laughed, but the look in his eyes was serious.

"Colton, there's no way I can go to this," I scoffed, grateful, but still in shock.

"I know it's a lot, but I'd really love to have you there. It'll be at the National Archives and since my parents are finally visiting for the first time in years, I'd like you to be there because you just..." he took a deep breath, "I don't know, you just get it."

But that was the thing with us. I didn't get it. I wasn't rich. I've never been to the The Four Seasons or The Hamptons, I've never had a personal chef since I was a goddamn fetus. And even though Colton wasn't an Elon Musk, he was more than comfortable, and that was something I was afraid we'd never connect on.

"C'monnn Ash," he pleaded. "We'd take care of everything. You'd have nothing to worry about."

"Nothing I'd have to worry about? What about a dress?" I made a point.

"Arturo can take care of that."

"Isn't he your chef?"

He shrugged, "Arturo is a very multi-faceted man."

I shoved him with a laugh, and he chuckled.

"I'll see if I can make it."