Sweaty Palms and Stray Cats

Maya's palms were literally sweating through her favorite ripped jeans as she stood outside Tyler's house. The Friday night party thumped with bass that vibrated all the way to the sidewalk.

She clutched her iPhone like a lifeline, thumbs hovering over the fake emergency call she'd prepped with her best friend Sasha. Just hit send, get rescued, spend the night watching Netflix instead of awkwardly sipping warm soda while Tyler—and everyone else—pretended she wasn't there.

Except Tyler had noticed her. That was the whole problem.

"Hey!"

Maya jumped. Tyler stood on the porch, wearing that backwards baseball cap that made him look annoyingly cute. "You coming in or what?"

"Yeah. Just... finishing a text."

Lame. So lame.

She followed him inside, where the air smelled like cheap body spray and nervous energy. Someone's cat—a scrawny tabby with half an ear—sat on the kitchen counter like it owned the place.

"That's Mr. Whiskers," Tyler said, scratching behind its ears. "My sister's cat. Hates everyone except me."

"Cool," Maya said, because what do you say to that?

Her phone buzzed. Sasha: HAVE FUN. DON'T BE WEIRD. Thanks, Sasha. Helpful as always.

Tyler grabbed two sodas from the fridge. "Wanna go outside? It's kinda loud in here."

They ended up on the back patio, where Tyler's baseball glove sat on a lawn chair next to a scuffed ball. He picked it up, tossing it absently.

"You play?" Maya asked.

"Used to. Pitch." He shrugged. "Before I realized I was mid and everyone else was actually good."

"Mid?" Maya couldn't help it—she laughed. "Who says mid anymore?"

"Shut up." Tyler grinned, and something in her chest did this stupid little flip.

The cat padded outside and jumped onto her lap. Maya froze—she was NOT a cat person—but Mr. Whiskers started purring like a tiny engine.

"Wow." Tyler's eyebrows went up. "He literally never does that."

"Guess I have a gift."

"Guess so."

They sat there for twenty minutes, talking about nothing and everything while the party raged inside. Maya's phone stayed in her pocket, screen down, completely forgotten.

Later, when Tyler walked her home, their hands brushed. Once. Twice. Three times.

Her palms were sweating again.

But this time? She didn't mind at all.