R A N D O M || OS

151. (MCU) Steven Grant - Red Flags *

Those eyes are the reason you don't bother to act indignant or inform him tartly that today is not Saturday. Instead, you let it go with a polite smile as you sit down across from him.

High cheekbones flushed pink, he seems discombobulated that you're actually here, reduced to a cluster of wrecked nerves and completely unable to hold down a conversation. And God, it would be cute if it weren't so fucking awkward. You fiddle with your cheap wristwatch, pulling at the band until it comes loose the way it always does just so you have an excuse to put it back together. The silence between you echoes so loudly that you can practically hear the seconds tik-toking away.

"How's work at the gift shop?" you ask finally, straining to keep the pleasant smile on your face.

"Not too bad." He opens his mouth as if to say more, but his fragile nerves are etched on every line of his face, and instead his mouth clamps down tight.

Three words. Apparently you get three words only. Then it's back to silence, and you want to bang your head against the surface of the table. Maybe you should have gone with Ben from Tinder after all?

God, you just need to find a topic of conversation. Any topic. You can't do this deafening awkward silence anymore.

So you open your mouth and wind up nattering on about the banal details of your day: the delay on the tube that almost made you late; your coworker's birthday celebration; your failed eBay auction attempts for a particular edition of The Prince and the Pauper by Mark Twain.

"It was a limited release, sold out at every book store in town, seems like." It's a topic that you regret embarking on as soon as you open your mouth. Still, you keep prattling on, sure that you must be boring him to death, because you don't know what else to talk to him about.

Miraculously, he shows no signs of boredom. Instead, he follows along, taking in your every word with rapt attention. He even manages to stutter out a question or two. Intelligent ones, at that. And he actually seems to care about your responses. You can't remember the last time any man had listened to you so attentively. It's flattering and leaves you feeling flustered and flushed.

By the time the date ends an hour later, you're feeling marginally warmer towards him, though he's barely managed two dozen words of his own.

It's absolutely pouring when you exit the diner, and you realise with dismay that you'd not thought to bring an umbrella.

"I'll walk you to the tube, yeah?" he offers, popping open his own umbrella, and holding it out for you to step under. Carefully keeping it slanted your way when he joins you a moment later.

You're both quiet on the walk, but the silence feels less awkward than it had in the restaurant, a bit friendlier. He's still nervous and ill at ease and watches you surreptitiously the whole time, his eyes darting furtively in your direction when he thinks you aren't looking.

It's not until you reach your station that he finally speaks.

"Can I see you again?"

You hesitate, thinking of the miserable hour you spent sitting in the diner alone on Saturday—the real Saturday. Of the awkwardness tonight. The way you were there together for over an hour, but you still know next to nothing about him.

You shouldn't. You know you shouldn't, but your eyes are drawn to the soaked patch on the right shoulder and arm of his jacket where the coverage of the umbrella missed him entirely. Your own coat is dry, not a drop of water on you.

For the life of you, you can't explain why you say yes, but you do.

-

You make plans to meet up again the next weekend, and this time, he actually makes it to the restaurant venue at the proper date and time. You spot him from outside when you arrive. He's wearing an outdated, ill-fitting suit, and you watch through the front window as he fiddles nervously with his tie.