What the Number Means

Jamie did not text the number right away. He told himself that like it was a rule. Like it mattered that he held onto it for three days, folded and unfolded until the paper softened at the creases. He carried it in his pocket through lectures, through the café shift, through the early evening lull at Bar Della Luna when the lights were still too bright and the music had not settled into its skin yet.

He told himself waiting meant control. Mostly it meant thinking about it too much. The number burned like a quiet thing. Not urgent. Persistent. It existed in the background of his thoughts, a low hum that never quite faded. Jamie hated that he knew exactly where it was at all times. He hated more that he had not thrown it away.

On the fourth night, rain came down hard and fast. The kind that soaked through shoes and made the sidewalks shine like glass. Jamie stood under the awning outside the café, waiting for the bus that was already late, water dripping from his hair onto the collar of his jacket. He pulled the paper out and stared at it. “This is stupid,” he muttered. The bus did not come. He texted.

Jamie: You said I didn’t have to use this. The reply came almost immediately.

Adrian: I did.

Jamie exhaled slowly. His chest felt tight, like he had stepped into deeper water without realizing it.

Jamie: Then why answer so fast. A pause this time, long enough that Jamie regretted asking.

Adrian: Because I was awake.

Jamie glanced up at the gray sky, rain streaking the streetlights into long blurred lines.

Jamie: It’s late.

Adrian: I know.

Jamie: Why.

Another pause.

Adrian: Because you are.

Jamie laughed under his breath, sharp and quiet. “You are impossible,” he said to no one. The bus finally arrived. Jamie climbed on, wet and tired, and found a seat near the back. He stared out the window as the city slid by, phone warm in his hand.

Jamie: You don’t get to decide things about me.

Adrian: You are right.

Jamie frowned.

Jamie: That was too easy.

Adrian: I am capable of learning.

Jamie shook his head. He should stop, he knew he should. The line between them felt thin enough already.

Jamie: Why are you doing this.

This time, the pause stretched longer. The bus rattled over a pothole. Jamie’s reflection stared back at him from the darkened glass, eyes tired, mouth set like he was bracing for something.

Adrian: Because if I pretend you are not in my life now, I will lie poorly.

Jamie swallowed.

Jamie: That is not comforting.

Adrian: I am not trying to comfort you.

Jamie slipped the phone into his pocket before he could answer that. His stop came too quickly. He walked the rest of the way home in the rain, shoes squelching, mind louder than the storm. Inside his apartment, he peeled off wet clothes and left them in a heap by the door. He stood in the dim kitchen and drank water straight from the tap, palms flat against the counter. “This is a bad idea,” he told the empty room. The room did not argue.

At Bar Della Luna the next night, Adrian was already there. Not in the booth. At the bar. Jamie froze when he saw him. Just for a second. Long enough that Evan noticed. “Oh,” Evan murmured. “He is breaking pattern.” Jamie shot him a look. “Don’t.” Evan grinned, “I am absolutely going to.”

Adrian sat on a stool, posture relaxed, one elbow resting on the bar like he belonged there in a way that did not need announcing. He looked up when Jamie approached, gaze steady and unreadable. “Hi,” Jamie said, then hated himself for it. “Hello,” Adrian replied. No corner booth, no distance. Jamie felt exposed, like the usual barrier had been removed without warning. “Whiskey?” Jamie asked.

“Yes,” Adrian said. “If you don’t mind.” Jamie poured it, hands steady through force of habit. He set the glass down and met Adrian’s gaze. “You are sitting in the wrong place,” Jamie said. Adrian’s mouth curved slightly. “Am I.”

“Yes.”

“Why.”

“That booth is… yours.” Adrian studied him. “Is that what you think.” Jamie hesitated. “Everyone else does.”

Adrian nodded once. “Then tonight I am someone else.” Jamie frowned. “Why.”

“Because you texted me,” Adrian said quietly. Jamie’s breath caught. “That’s not fair.”

“I know,” Adrian said. “I apologize.” Jamie stared at him, thrown off balance. “You do.”

“Yes.”

“For what.”

“For making you feel like you owed me an explanation.” Jamie swallowed. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“I know,” Adrian said again. “I keep agreeing with you. You don’t seem to like it.”

“It makes it harder to argue,” Jamie muttered. Adrian smiled. Just barely. The bar filled gradually, voices rose, glasses clinked. Jamie worked, aware of Adrian at the bar the entire time. Adrian did not demand attention, did not pull him into conversation. He just watched and waited. That was worse.

At one point, Lily arrived. Jamie felt it before he saw her. The air tightened. Lily paused when she spotted Adrian at the bar, surprise flashing across her face before it hardened into something sharper. She walked over. “Why are you sitting there,” she asked, not bothering to lower her voice. Adrian did not look at her. “Because I want to.” Lily’s gaze flicked to Jamie, then back, “this is inappropriate.” Jamie bristled. “I’m just doing my job.”

Lily ignored him. “You are making a point.”

“Yes,” Adrian said calmly. “Which is.”

“That you do not decide where I sit,” Adrian replied. Silence stretched, Lily’s jaw tightened. “You are being difficult,” she said. “I am being clear,” Adrian corrected. Lily laughed softly, “this will end badly.” Adrian finally looked at her then. His gaze was steady, unflinching. “Only if you make it so.” Lily’s eyes darkened. She turned sharply and walked away, heels striking the floor with sharp, angry clicks. Jamie exhaled slowly. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Adrian said. “Because she would have done it to you later.” Jamie frowned, “what does that mean.” Adrian’s gaze softened. “It means I know Lily.” Jamie wiped the counter. “I don’t want problems.”

“I know.”

“Then why does it feel like you keep bringing them closer.” Adrian was quiet for a moment. The bar noise filled the space between them. “Because some problems find you regardless,” Adrian said. “I would rather be near when they do.” Jamie looked at him. Really looked. The scar on his forearm was hidden tonight, sleeves down and guarded. “You are not my responsibility,” Jamie said. Adrian nodded. “Good.”

“And I am not yours.” Adrian met his gaze. “Also good.” Jamie stared at him. “You don’t sound convinced.” Adrian took a slow sip of his drink. “Conviction and truth are not always aligned.” Jamie huffed a quiet laugh. “You are exhausting.”

“Yes,” Adrian said. “But consistent.” Later, after midnight, the bar thinned. Adrian moved back to the corner booth without comment. The pattern returned, but it felt altered now, like something had shifted underneath it. When Jamie finished his shift, Adrian did not immediately stand. Jamie hesitated by the door, then turned back. “I am walking home alone tonight.” Adrian nodded. “I know.”

“You don’t need to wait.”

“I am not,” Adrian said. Jamie frowned. “You are sitting there.”

“I am letting you leave first,” Adrian replied. Jamie stared at him, then shook his head. “You make things complicated.” Adrian’s gaze followed him. “You make them worth considering.” Jamie left before that could sink in. At home, he lay on his bed fully clothed, phone resting on his chest. His thumb hovered over the screen.

Jamie: You don’t scare me the way you think you do. The reply took longer this time.

Adrian: That worries me.

Jamie smiled despite himself.

Jamie: Good night.

Adrian: Sleep.

Jamie closed his eyes. Somewhere in the city, Adrian DeLuca sat alone in the corner booth long after the bar had emptied, glass untouched, thoughts circling one quiet truth he had not yet said aloud. The number had been used. There was no taking it back now.