Roman fumbles through the pocket of his cargo shorts, fishing out his buzzing Blackberry as the mall’s food court clatters around him. He answers just in time to hear Ash’s voice, sullen but urgent,
"Where are you, puppy?"
Roman grins, glancing at the sticky floor tiles and the mess of crumpled napkins by his sneakers. Across the food court, he spots Ash half-slouched on a bench, eyeliner smudged and band tee hanging off one bony shoulder, glaring at the world.
Roman weaves through a herd of middle schoolers, ducking a thrown french fry. He drops beside Ash, their knees touching. Ash shoves a cold soda into Roman’s hand, acting annoyed but lingering close.
“Did you tell your mom you’re staying at my place tonight?”
Ash mutters, voice low so nobody overhears. The din of arcade machines and tinny pop-punk from the radio kiosk almost drowns him out. Roman squeezes Ash’s wrist, steady and gentle. The air between them is thick with everything unspoken, but Ash’s hand doesn’t move.
A group of football guys lingers by the pretzel stand, eyes darting their way. Roman’s stomach knots. Ash flashes a middle finger toward them without turning. Roman takes a long breath, thumb running over Ash’s bracelet, and leans in, heart pounding beneath the mall’s fluorescent lights.