Page 101 of The Fangirl Project
I exhale, biting my lip at my own foolishness getting me into this whole mess. Max is watching me so closely, like he can’t bear to miss a single word I say, but the way his gaze flickers down to my mouth is alittledistracting.
“I’m not choosing Jake,” I tell him. “He’s not the one who…Well, he’s notyou.And you’re…you’re the weird cosplay guy who’s too into a stupid fantasy series and—Max, that’s exactly what I admire about you. I actually reallylikethat about you.”
Max lets out a ragged breath, staring at our interlocked hands hanging between us. His hand is big enough to engulf mine almost completely, but it trembles. I think mine does, too. The way he looks at me, his eyes searching mine, desperate, a furrow in his brow—it’s like he isn’t sure if he can let himself believe me.
I’m not sure I can believe it, either. That it’s him. That it was always him.
“It’s not Jake I’ve got feelings for. That whole speech I gave earlier…that was meant for Runic Rascal. It was meant foryou.You’re the one I want to talk to about my day, about this show, about anything and everything.”
His expression softens, a smile quirking at the edge of his mouth. His fingers thread more solidly through mine.
I keep reading fanfics where the characters loose a breath they didn’t know they were holding, romances where they feel some sense of homecoming; this feels like that. It makes sense now.
I say softly, “People don’t always remember my name, either, you know. My friend Daphne thought I was called Carys at first.”
He huffs another laugh.
“And I don’t have a whole lot of experience flirting with a guy I like, either. Obviously, or I might’ve noticed sooner…” I roll my eyes. “Can we…maybe rewind, a bit?”
“What, start again? Blank slate?”
“No, just…go back a little way. Like…maybe to the part where I was blabbering on about eighty-seven unread messages, making up stupid nicknames, and staying up all night to talk, and realizing I was falling forthatguy. For you.”
And it’s not the scary, world-stopping revelation like it seems in the movies.
It’s just…a fact.
We’ve moved closer, somehow, at some point, our bodies almost flush. Now Max’s free hand comes up to cradle my cheek and my breath hitches in my throat—he seems a lot more like the confident guy who strode around Comic Con in a wig and bandolier when he tilts my head up toward his.
“D’you mean that?” he murmurs.
“Would you prefer it spelled out in a Discord message? Translated into a fanfic?” I grin. “Yes,I mean it.”
He lowers his head, not quite all the way, just close enough for the tip of his nose to graze down the end of mine, and my eyes flutter shut. My hands grip his shoulders and even if he hasn’t kissed me yet, my foot is ready to pop, my knees are weak, I’ll shatter if he lets me go, I’m every cliché in the book.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’ve fallen for you, too. And I’d really like to take you on a proper date, Cerys.”
My chat at New Year’s with the girls swims to the front of my mind, and I blurt, half teasing, half meaning it, “Are you going to wear the elf ears?”
He laughs, and his lips are still curved into a smile when they finally meet mine, and I melt into his kiss.
Epilogue
The July heat is sweltering,and I’m worried that I’m already sweating through my dress. The subway car rocks to a stop and Jake, as the tallest, is responsible for navigating our way through London, and so he cranes his neck over the people packed in like sardines with us then shakes his head.
“West Brompton,” he tells us. “Next one!”
The car jolts as it leaves the station, and Jake lets out an “Oof!” when one of the prongs on Anissa’s elaborate antlers pokes him in the cheek. She cringes. “Sorry! Sorry!”
She’s come as Téiglin, using my art coursework sculpture as part of her costume rather than letting it gather dust in the classroom. Jake’s new Daxys wings, made with Max’s help, are held carefully, cautiously, in front of him—both to protect them on the journey and to protect other people from being smacked by them. The wingspan is impressive, if canon-accurately wonky.
The motion of the train makes me stumble too, and a hand slides firmly onto the small of my back, keeping me balanced andupright. When I look up to Max with a grateful smile, he teases, “Not that you need saving, my lady.”
“I don’t mind a bit of chivalry now and then,” I respond, and go up on my tiptoes, planting a light kiss on his lips. He pulls me in deeper with the hand on my back, and obviously, I’m only holding on to his shoulders for balance, not to lean into the kiss.
What a ridiculous idea, honestly.
We’re both smiling as we pull away, and by then the train is coming to another stop, the automated announcement telling us tomind the gapas what seems like half the car piles out into Earl’s Court. There’s a stormtrooper without his helmet, a couple of hobbits distinguishable by their waistcoats and very large, thick, fake feet. A Deadpool half-falls onto the platform, nimbly catching himself as he trips over someone’s suitcase, and runs ahead to catch up to a female Captain America and Loki.
