"Yes, Mickie," I say into the phone . I've been standing just inside the entrance of the bar for twenty minutes. In that time, I've said about ten sentences, mostly consisting of 'yes Micks' and one 'really girl?' for variety, waiting for a lull in the conversation so I can hang up and get a much needed drink. I have a lot of affection towards Mickie, after all she is my best friend. But listening to her drone on about her new boyfriend and how he could be "the One" is less than an ideal way to spend my time. By the time I get off the phone, I'm mentally exhausted and emotionally cynical.

I walk into the actual bar and see that John's the only one there, nursing a beer, his legs braced around a bar stool. I take a little longer than I should to hang my coat on the rack near the front, but that may be because I keep missing the hook—which may be because I am still staring at him.

"Hey." I take the seat next to him and he motions to the bartender, tapping the lip of his beer bottle with his index finger to signal for one more. He's smooth in that way that can't be taught or learned, and I can't be bothered to deny that I've always found it attractive.

"What's up?" he asks me, left eyebrow arched. Always found that attractive, too.

I look at him. Does he know that I was staring at him a few seconds ago? That I'm thinking about how good he looks? That I may be picturing him shirtless right now?

"What do you mean?"

"Well, let me explain. In America and many other parts of the English speaking world, 'what's up' is a phrase used most commonly by the younger generation that signals greeting or—"

"Shut up. And nothing's up with me," I tell him. It's almost not a lie.

He elbows me gently. "Ask me what's up."

"Alright, I'll bite."

"I know you will," he says, tapping a spot on his collarbone covered by his shirt where I may have left a tiny hickey.

I roll my eyes and say with exaggerated excitement, "What's up, John?"

He grins that half smile that charmed the pants off me—literally—two nights ago. "This chick I hooked up with said I was the best she ever had."

I would roll my eyes again, but I'm afraid that I've done it so much today, they might get stuck. "Kiss my ass, Morrison."

He smirks. "I did." It's true, he did. "It was very nice."

I can't help but fall into his trap. "My ass or the kiss?"

"Both. It was a nice ass, which made it a nice kiss."

"Well, thank you."

"Do you have anything you want to tell me about my ass?"

It looks really good in those jeans. "No."

"Liar, liar, sexy little pants on fire."

Sexy little pants? I look at him strangely. He has never called anything I've ever worn 'sexy'. Then again, before two days ago, we'd never fallen into bed with each other either, so maybe this is a new world where all the old rules are off.

"By the way Why'd you talk about what happened Sunday night with Micks and Eve? You never talk about stuff like that."

I shrug. "I don't know. Temporary stupidity, I guess."

He grins and gently pokes me in the ribs, making me squirm. "Is it because it was so good that you just had to tell someone about it?"

It is, but I'm not about to tell him that. "You know, I've always known you were a smug bastard but you've reached new levels today."

He smiles, and for once, it's not a smirk. It's sweet, which throws me off. He swivels my bar stool so I'm facing him, leans in close to me and looks me right in the eyes as he says like it's a matter of fact, "Mel, I've seen you naked. Of course I'm going to be smug."

I freeze, even as my blood heats up. I'm part shocked, part aroused, and completely confused.

Since when does he talk about me naked?

Since he's seen me naked, I suppose.

I try to shake it off and playfully slap him like I normally would if he had made any other comment. But he didn't. He made this comment, and it feels anything but normal. I can still smell his cologne and the barley barely on his breath; all these things I've never noticed before that now I can't stop thinking about.

It's such a warring feeling. One part of me is inevitably pleased with the compliments and attention—what girl wouldn't be?—and another is absolutely loathing how uneasy I feel around John. It's John. My best friend. He's supposed to be easy—not like that, of course. Although, if I take into account how quickly we fell into bed together on Sunday, he is kind of easy. But if he's easy, it means I am too, so I'm going to ignore that. Suddenly I feel his head get closer to mine, until our foreheads are touching.

"You don't know how bad I wanna kiss you right now," he mumbles. He slowly kisses the ends of my mouth, before his kisses trail to my neck. I have to stop this before it gets out of hand, but dammit I would be lying if I said I am debating on letting this continue.

"John," I hiss. He looks up and frowns as I slowly pull away and put on my scarf.

"You're leaving?"

I nod. "Getting tired." Tired of hearing my own thoughts, which seem to have been in constant disarray for the past few days.

He takes a big chug to finish the rest of his beer. "I'll come with you."

"No!" I say a little too loudly, a little quickly. He looks alarmed. I dart my eyes to the corner with the two girls. "An eight and a nine, northwest," I tell him, using this ridiculous code that Cena and Mike made up so they could check out girls.

"What?" he asks, scrunching up his face in confusion.

I should have known he wouldn't understand. So instead, I make it obvious, jerking my chin in their direction, knowing they're still watching us. "Girls." He looks at me blankly. "Looking at you." His brow furrows. I huff. "Those girls are looking at you. Go talk to them."

"But I thought we were hanging out tonight," he says.

I shrug as I slide of my stool. "Don't worry, we can hang out anytime." I begin to wind my scarf around my neck as he jumps off his stool, and in his attempt to help me, he winds up completely palming my boob by accident. I think.

His eyes grow, wide and he looks like a little boy who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar—I suppose breasts are the adult male equivalent of a cookie jar. For a moment, all those frantic feelings disappear and are replaced by John and I just being the way we always are, the only way I know how to be.

"Did you just touch my boob?"

"I might have?" he says, somehow looking smug and guilty at the same time. I don't know how he does that. It's a rare and irritating gift. "I can't say I regret tit, though."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Really, John?"

He gleefully replies, "You're the breast, Mel."

I throw my arms in the air in frustration. "Now I'm really leaving."

"But Baby my bodyyyy is callinggg for youuuu," he belts out. God sometimes I wanna smack him.

"And my body says call declined," I respond back. I go to walk out the door, but stop when I noticed he is following me.

"Aren't you staying at the bar? Those girls really were checking you out."

He turns me into his arms and for a second I get lost in his eyes. "Mel, I don't want those other girls, their nothing compared to you."

Did I mention not only is he cute, but damn is he good with words. I break out in a blush.

"Thanks Romeo," I giggle.

As I begin to walk away, he calls loudly, "Thanks for the mammaries!"

I say goodbye to him with one very expressive finger, but I'm laughing to myself as I walk back home. For a moment, I'm actually debating on catching up with him, kissing him and seeing where it goes from there. But in the end, I decide to end things on a high note instead of messing it up again with my thoughts and feelings. I walk quickly down the street to my house before I can change my mind and fall asleep before any of my thoughts can catch up with me.

—|—

I make my decision as I head back to the table. When you lean forward to take your drink from me, I hold it away. You roll your eyes and reach across me, and I dip my head so your lips wind up on mine.

We're kissing.

You and me.

And it doesn't feel odd or strange. It's soft, surprising. It's sexy, and it feels natural. Normal, even.

When I pull away slightly, I brace myself. But you don't slap me. You don't look disgusted or terrified. Best of all, you don't ask me, 'what was that?'

Because I don't really know what it was, but it was something and you feel it, too.

You're looking at me like you always do and it makes me feel like it always does, like I'm a cross between Superman and an annoying dog all at once. You're the only one who takes all my shit and gives back just as good. I kind of love that.

But you're also looking at me with something else—want. It's a mix of lust and like and awe, and I recognize it because that's exactly what I'm feeling. I kind of love that, too.

When I lean down to kiss you a second time, it's without all the worry of before. Now there's a feeling that I can't name or describe, that's brand new but feels like it could have been around this whole time and I never knew it. And since I can't describe it—or maybe even if I could—the only thing I can do, the only thing I want to do, is show you.