Emergency!

The text you fire off is short and to the point: Chuck, it’s John and I need your help. It’s an emergency! After a moment, you fire a second text with your address.

You’d swear it was half an hour later, but the time stamp on the reply is only one minute after your text. His reply is even shorter: OMW

You spend the next eternity double-checking yourself to make sure you look good enough. Does this shirt reveal too much? Will you flash him if you move wrong in these shorts? Should you style your hair, or be content with the quick brush you ran through it?

A knock at the door freezes you for a moment before you scramble to answer. There he is, framed in your doorway, making you realize what “butterflies in your stomach” actually feels like.

“Uh, hi,” Chuck says, looking into the house behind you. “Is, uh, John here?”

You grab his arm and pull him forward, off balance. He stumbles across the threshold and you close the door behind him. You spin to face him and he takes a step back.

“Is that you, Gwen?” he asks uncertainly. Though he continues looking around for the John he knew, his eyes light on you more often, as though to keep you in his sights. “I got a text from John. Is he in trouble?”