The text comes at 6:47 AM.

*Felix: Be ready by noon. Wear something you can move in.

I stare at my phone, still in bed, my stomach doing complicated things.

Yesterday I chose him. Sent that text to Sienna knowing exactly what it would cost.

I haven't told Felix yet. Haven't found the words to explain that I traded my grandfather's legacy for the possibility of us.

Me: That's ominous.

Felix: Trust me.

Two words that shouldn't make my chest tight, but do.

I push my glasses up my nose, a nervous habit I can't break.

Trust him. After three years of trusting no one, of building walls so high even I can barely see over them.

After choosing him over everything I thought I couldn't live without.

Me: This better not involve public humiliation.

Felix: Only the good kind.

I'm smiling despite myself as I get out of bed.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He picks me up in his mom's ancient Honda, the one that smells like the five-spice and ginger from their restaurant.

But today there's something else. Orange zest, bright and sharp.

Felix is wearing dark jeans and a white t-shirt that shouldn't look as good as it does, his hair doing that effortless messy thing that probably takes him thirty seconds and would take me an hour to replicate.

"You're being weird," I say as I slide into the passenger seat.

"I'm always weird."

"Weirder than usual."

He glances at me, and his smile is different. Nervous, maybe. Determined.

"I need to show you something."

"That's what every serial killer says."

"Have you considered that your constant true crime references might be a red flag?"

"Have you considered that your face is a red flag?"

He laughs, that carrying-across-three-hallways sound, and pulls away from my house.

We drive in comfortable silence, which is new. A week ago, silence with Felix would have made me anxious, would have sent me scrambling for a quote or a quip to fill the space.

Now it feels easy.

Terrifying, but easy.

"Where are we going?" I finally ask.

"You'll see."

"I hate surprises."

"I know." He reaches over and takes my hand, casual as breathing. "That's why I'm doing this."

His palm is warm against mine. Callused from the woodworking he does in his dad's garage, rough in a way that makes me hyperaware of every point of contact.

I should pull away. Should make a joke, quote something, rebuild the walls.

Instead, I hold on.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He takes me to a diner on the edge of town, the kind with red vinyl booths and a jukebox that probably hasn't worked since 1987.

"Felix—"

"Just trust me."

That phrase again. A mantra. A prayer.

We slide into a booth, and he orders for both of us without looking at the menu.

When the waitress leaves, he leans forward, elbows on the table.

"So here's the thing," he says. "I've been thinking about what you said. About me not understanding what these films mean to you."

My throat tightens. "Felix, you don't have to—"

"Let me finish." His eyes are serious, warm brown gone almost amber in the diner's fluorescent lights. "You're right. I didn't get it at first. I joined the club as a joke, stayed because... well, because of you, if I'm being honest."

"Romantic."

"Shut up, I'm making a point." But he's smiling. "I stayed because of you, but then something happened. I started actually watching the films. Not just looking at them, but seeing them. The way you do."

The waitress returns with our order.

Two plates. Each with a single carrot.

I stare at them.

"What the hell is this?"

Felix picks up his carrot with a flourish. "It Happened One Night. Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. The hitchhiking scene."

My heart does something complicated and painful.

"You're insane."

"Probably." He bites one end of the carrot, holds it out to me. "But you chose me anyway."

I look at him—this loud, chaotic boy who learned about a 1934 film just to prove a point—and feel something crack open in my chest.

The defensive voice in my head that always has a quote ready, that always keeps me safe behind someone else's words, goes quiet.

I lean forward and bite the other end of the carrot.

It's ridiculous. We're in a diner at noon on a Saturday, eating a carrot like we're in a Depression-era romantic comedy, and I'm pretty sure the waitress thinks we're having a stroke.

But Felix is grinning at me like I've just given him the world.

We bite closer, closer, until there's barely any carrot left and our faces are inches apart.

"This is stupid," I whisper.

"Completely," he agrees.

Then he closes the distance and kisses me.

It's soft and tastes like carrot and something sweet, and I'm smiling against his mouth like an idiot.

When we pull apart, he's looking at me with an expression that makes my stomach flip.

"One down," he says.

"One down what?"

"You'll see."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Stop two is the empty parking lot behind the old movie theater downtown, the one that closed three years ago and hasn't reopened.

Felix parks, gets out, opens my door like we're in a period drama.

"Okay, seriously, what are we doing?"

He pulls out his phone, taps something, and music starts playing from his car speakers.

Big band. Swing era. The kind of music that plays in Technicolor dreams.

"Dance with me."

I stare at him. "Here? Now?"

"Here. Now."

"Felix, I don't know how to—"

"Neither do I." He holds out his hand. "We'll figure it out."

The sun is bright and the asphalt is cracked and there's no one around to see us make fools of ourselves.

I take his hand.

He pulls me close, one hand at my waist, and we start moving. It's not graceful. I step on his feet twice, and he nearly spins me into a light post.

But he's laughing, and I'm laughing, and the music is big and brassy and ridiculous.

"This is from—"

"Every musical ever made," he says. "I couldn't pick just one."

We spin and stumble and eventually I give up trying to follow any kind of steps and just let him lead me in chaotic circles.

His cedar and orange scent is everywhere. His hand is firm at my waist. His smile is bright enough to hurt.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask, breathless.

He pulls me closer, until we're barely moving, just swaying.

"Because you live in these films," he says quietly. "You hide in them. Use them as armor against the real world." His hand comes up to cup my face. "But I need you to know that the real world can be just as good. Better, even. Because it's ours."

The music swells around us.

"Felix—"

"I'm not leaving, Margot. I know you're waiting for me to. I know you're preparing for it. But I'm not your mom, and I'm not some character who exits stage left when things get hard." His thumb brushes my cheekbone. "I'm here. I'm staying. And I need you to believe that."

The crack in my chest widens, and suddenly I'm crying, stupid tears sliding down my face.

"I'm trying," I whisper.

"I know." He kisses my forehead, soft and sweet. "That's why we're doing this."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Stop three is back at the school.

It's Saturday, so the parking lot is empty except for a few cars belonging to teachers working weekend detention.

Felix parks near the back entrance, the one closest to the film club room.

"We're not allowed to be here on weekends," I say.

"Since when do you care about rules?"

"Since always. I'm a rule-follower."

"You're a film noir protagonist. Completely different."

He gets out, goes to his trunk, and pulls out... a garden hose.

"What the hell?"

"Just come on."

He leads me to the side of the building, where there's an outdoor spigot. He hooks up the hose, tests it.

Water sprays out in a weak arc.

"Felix Zhang, if you spray me with that—"

"It's not for spraying." He adjusts the nozzle until it's creating a fine mist. "It's for ambiance."

Then I understand.

"No."

"Yes."

"That's the worst idea you've ever had."

"Probably."

He sets the hose on the ground, angled up so it creates a pathetic excuse for rain, and holds out his hand.

"Dance with me."

"We literally just danced."

"That was a musical. This is a romantic drama. Completely different genre."

The mist is catching the afternoon light, creating tiny rainbows.

It's absurd. It's perfect. It's so completely Felix that I can't even be annoyed.

I step into the spray.

It's cold, and within seconds we're both damp, and my vintage cardigan is probably ruined.

Felix pulls me close, and we sway to music that only exists in our heads.

"This is the worst rain effect I've ever seen," I say against his chest.

"I'm working with limited resources."

"You're working with no resources."

"And yet, here you are."

His heart is beating fast under my ear. His t-shirt is getting soaked, clinging to his shoulders.

I tilt my head back to look at him.

Water droplets are caught in his hair, on his eyelashes. He's smiling down at me like I'm something precious.

"I chose you," I say suddenly. "I need you to know that. Sienna made an offer. She'd fund the festival, save the club, if I... if we..."

His expression changes. "What did she want?"

"For you to take her to Winter Formal. For us to end."

His jaw tightens. "And you said?"

"I said no." The words feel like freedom. "I chose you over the club. Over my grandfather's legacy. Over everything I thought I couldn't live without."

He's very still.

"Margot—"

"I know what it means. I know she'll probably get her mother to kill the club anyway. I know I just destroyed the last piece of him I had left." I'm shaking now, and not from the cold. "But I couldn't... I couldn't let you think you were second choice. You're not. You're the first thing I've chosen for myself in three years."

He kisses me.

It's different from the other times. Desperate, consuming, like he's trying to crawl inside my skin.

His hands are in my wet hair, on my face, pulling me closer. I grip his soaked t-shirt and kiss him back with everything I have.

The terrible makeshift rain falls around us.

When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.

"Come with me," he says.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The film club room is dark and dusty and smells like old celluloid and my grandfather's memory.

Felix flicks on the lights, and I see he's been here before. Recently.

There's a blanket spread on the floor in front of the screen. Candles—battery operated, because we're not idiots—scattered around.

And the projector is already loaded with a film.

"When did you do this?"

"This morning. Before I picked you up." He's nervous again, hands shoved in his pockets. "I wanted... I needed you to know that I get it. Why this place matters. Why these films matter."

He goes to the projector, and the room fills with light.

Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans flickers to life on the screen.

"It's a silent film," he says unnecessarily. "About a man who almost destroys everything good in his life, but then fights to win it back. About second chances and choosing love over fear."

My throat is tight. "Felix—"

"I watched it three times trying to understand why you love these so much." He comes back to me, takes my hands. "And I think I finally get it. They're about the things we can't say. The feelings too big for words. They're about being seen without having to explain yourself."

A tear slides down my cheek.

"I see you, Margot. Not the quotes, not the armor. You."

I kiss him.

He makes a surprised sound against my mouth, then kisses me back with an intensity that makes my knees weak.

We stumble toward the blanket, not breaking apart. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, tangling in my still-damp hair.

I pull at his wet t-shirt and he helps me, yanking it over his head and tossing it aside.

Then we're on the blanket, the projector's light washing over us in silver and shadow.

"Margot." His voice is rough. "Are you sure?"

Instead of answering with words—instead of hiding behind someone else's dialogue—I show him.

I kiss him again, slow and deliberate. My hands map the planes of his chest, the muscles in his shoulders, the racing pulse at his throat.

He groans and pulls me closer, and suddenly there are too many layers between us.

We shed them clumsily, laughing when my cardigan gets stuck, cursing when his belt won't cooperate.

Then it's just us, skin against skin, in the light of a 1927 film about love and redemption.

"You're sure?" he asks again, and I love him for checking.

Love him.

The thought should terrify me. Instead, it feels inevitable.

"I'm sure."

He kisses me like I'm air and he's drowning.

His hands are gentle despite the urgency, checking in with every touch, every movement.

I've never felt so present in my own life. So completely here, in this moment, in my body, without the protective distance of fiction.

It's terrifying and perfect and nothing like the movies.

It's better.

Because it's real. Because it's mine. Because it's us.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

After, we lie tangled together under the blanket, watching the film play out on the screen above us.

The projector's light creates patterns on his skin. Cedar and orange and something new—us, together.

"I never thought I'd have sex in a film club room," I say.

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where my head rests. "I never thought I'd join a film club, but here we are."

"Breaking all your expectations."

"In the best way."

I trace idle patterns on his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady under my palm.

"Thank you," I say quietly. "For today. For all of it."

"You don't have to thank me for proving I'm in this."

"I know. But I am anyway."

He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "What happens now?"

"Now?" I tilt my head to look at him. "Now we watch the rest of the film. Then we figure out how to save the club without Sienna's help."

"You think we can?"

"I think we have to try."

His arms tighten around me. "Together?"

"Together."

On screen, the couple in Sunrise reconciles, finding their way back to each other through the darkness.

I watch them and feel something unfamiliar bloom in my chest.

Hope.

For the first time in three years, I'm not hiding. Not quoting someone else's happy ending.

I'm living my own story.

And maybe, just maybe, it won't end in tragedy.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

We leave the school as the sun is setting, hands linked, still glowing.

Felix drives me home, and we make plans to meet tomorrow to strategize. To figure out how to save the club without Sienna's poisoned offer.

"We'll find a way," he says, kissing me goodbye at my door.

"We will," I agree.

I float into my house, still wrapped in the warmth of the day.

My phone buzzes as I'm getting ready for bed.

A message from an unknown number.

Unknown: Tomorrow's board meeting agenda is now public. Thought you should know. —A friend

My stomach drops.

I click the link with shaking hands.

There, buried in the middle of routine budget discussions and facility updates:

Item 7: Proposal to eliminate low-enrollment extracurricular programs, including Film Appreciation Club, effective immediately.

The meeting is tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Not next week, not next month.

Tomorrow.

And I just spent the entire day having the most perfect date of my life, completely oblivious.

I try to call Felix, but it goes straight to voicemail.

Text him: Call me. Emergency.*

But he doesn't respond.

I sit on my bed, staring at the agenda, feeling the perfect day crumble around me.

We're out of time.

And I have no idea how to save the one thing I have left of my grandfather.

Or if I even can.