Well, Actually

by Mazey Eddings

“But the table over your right shoulder”—he nods toward Cooper—“is about two minutes away from full screaming breakdown.” With the subtlety of a wrecking ball, Cooper whips around to look right as a broken sob from the table in question echoes toward us. On instinct, I reach across the table, grabbing his face between my hands and pivoting his head to look back at me. “Be chill for one minute, I’m begging you,” I whisper, eyes locked on his. Cooper’s pupils dilate, nearly eclipsing the silver of his irises, his glasses falling down the bridge of his nose. I try not to notice his swallow or the weighted breath he lets out that tickles the sensitive skin of my wrists. I ignore the gentle shift of his cheeks under my palms as his mouth curls up in an inevitable smile. I have absolutely zero awareness of the trace of his tongue across his bottom lip, his low, nearly laughing voice as he says, “You better talk me through it, then.”