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It’s almost almost midnight when Stebbins storms out of his house. The fight with his parents is still ringing in his ears. Sharp words about expectations, about “phases,” about who he’s becoming. He doesn’t grab a jacket. Doesn’t grab his wallet. Just walks. Hands shoved in his jean pockets, chest tight. He isn't even sad anymore. Just angry. He could just go to the local gay bar, Fuck some twink who he'll never see again and ask Ray if he could crash with him for a few days, but bars were always too loud for him. Too overstimulating.
The only place still open is a 24-hour coffee shop glowing at the edge of an empty parking lot. Inside, it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights. The drip of the espresso machine. One exhausted barista scrolling on his phone. And a single customer. A guy about his age, sitting alone with a half-finished coffee and a notebook spread out in front of him. The guy was cute in a nerdy way. Thick glasses, a college hoodie pulled over his thin frame. The bell over the door gives a weak jingle, too cheerful for the mood he’s in. The guy with the notebook glances up automatically, eyes flicking over him once, curious but not judgmental, then back down to the page.
Stebbins orders the cheapest coffee on the menu with the loose change he finds in his pocket. It’s barely enough, but the barista doesn’t argue. He takes the paper cup and drops into a seat two tables away from the guy.
He stares at the steam curling from his cup, trying to let the anger bleed out through his fingertips. His jaw still aches from clenching it. He replays his father’s voice."You’re confused. This isn’t who you are." Like they get to decide that. A pen taps softly against paper He looks up again. The guy has stopped writing. He’s watching him now, “You look like you’re about to punch the wall,” the guy says. His voice had a slight hesitance to it that could have been mistaken as a stutter. “Don’t. They’ll charge you for it.” Stebbins snorts before he can stop himself. The sound surprises him. “Noted,” he mutters.
The guy gives a small smile, like that was the goal. “Long night?” “You could say that.” The pen twirls between slender fingers. “Family?” Stebbins’ eyes narrow slightly. “You a therapist or something?” "Journalist, just used to asking people questions." There’s no edge to him. No mockery. "Family stuff" The words feel heavier than it should. The guy nods like that explains everything. Maybe it does. “They say something stupid?” he asks gently. Stebbins lets out a breath through his nose. “They always do.”
After a second, the guy closes his notebook. “I’m Richard but Everyone calls me Harkness.” Stebbins hesitates. He doesn’t usually give his name to strangers. Doesn’t usually do soft conversations in fluorescent-lit coffee shops either.
“Billy Stebbins, I usually just go by Stebbins.” “Well, Stebbins,” Harkness says, pushing his empty cup aside, “for what it’s worth… whoever you’re becoming? That’s kind of the point.”
Stebbins looks at him for a long second.
It’s such a simple sentence. Not preachy. Not dramatic. Just… obvious. And somehow it hits harder than anything else tonight. “That’s easy to say,” Stebbins mutters, eyes dropping back to his coffee. The steam’s faded now. “Not everyone’s thrilled about the ‘becoming’ part.” Harkness tilts his head a little. “Yeah. People get attached to earlier drafts.”
That pulls another reluctant huff out of him. “Earlier drafts.” Stebbins rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “You don’t even know me.” “No,” Harkness agrees easily. “But I know that look.” He taps his pen once against the notebook before sliding it into the spiral. “I’ve had it.” Stebbins studies him more carefully now. The oversized hoodie. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his fingers fidget when the room gets too quiet. “You?” Stebbins asks. Harkness shrugs. “My dad didn’t speak to me for three months after I switched majors. Apparently journalism is code for ‘starving disappointment.’” He smiles faintly. “And that was just about school.”
Something in the way he says it makes Stebbins’ chest tighten differently this time. Not with anger. With recognition.
“Yeah,” Stebbins says quietly. “Mine thinks I’m going through a phase.” “That’s a popular one,” Harkness says. “Phases. Rebellions. Confusions.” He picks at the cardboard sleeve on his cup. “Funny how the ‘phase’ always seems to line up with who you’ve been trying not to be your whole life.” Stebbins swallows. He hadn’t planned on talking about this. He’d planned on drowning it out with someone who didn’t know his last name.
Instead he’s here. In a too-bright coffee shop. Talking to a stranger who looks like he alphabetizes his books for fun.
“There’s a meteor shower tonight,” he says casually. “Supposed to peak around twelve-thirty.” Stebbins blinks. “You’re kidding.” “I write for the campus paper. I did a piece on it.” He gestures vaguely toward the window. “Parking lot’s not exactly prime stargazing territory, but it’s better than nothing.” Stebbins hesitates. This is ridiculous. He doesn’t know this guy.
“You always invite strangers to look at the sky with you?” he asks. “Only the ones who look like they’re about to commit property damage.” That does it. Stebbins stands before he can overthink it. “Fine. If it sucks, I’m blaming you.”
Harkness smiles, a little brighter this time. “Fair.” The parking lot is mostly empty. Sodium lights hum overhead, but beyond them the sky stretches wide and dark. For a minute, nothing happens. Stebbins shifts his weight. “Nothing is happenint" “Patience,” Harkness murmurs. And then A streak of white slices across the sky. Quick. Brilliant. Gone. Stebbins’ breath catches before he can stop it."Okay,” he says softly. “That was… okay.” Harkness laughs under his breath. “High praise.”
Another streak follows. Then another. Brief flashes against the black. They stand there without talking, shoulders almost brushing but not quite. The world feels smaller out here. Simpler. “You're a good guy Stebbins" Harkness said. Stebbins glances at him. “You don’t even know me.” Harkness meets his eyes this time. “No,” he agrees. “But I’d like to.” Another meteor burns across the sky, brighter than the last. “Yeah,” he says after a second. “Maybe you can.”