Blaine spends the rest of his shift studiously ignoring the quiet weight of the phone in his pocket. He knows he’s not supposed to have it on the floor, but he doesn’t give a damn. Not that day. There are some things more important than company policy. He’d sneaked his phone out of his bag during his lunch break and tried not to feel cold disappointment when there wasn’t already a missed call or text message.

He doesn’t think Kurt is the type of guy to ask someone out and then forget to call, but Blaine remembers that he doesn’t really know Kurt, not beyond a drink order and a job title. Kurt is probably a busy man; he has an important job, a life. He’s probably swamped at work and doesn’t have a few moments to call some barista around the block. More likely, Blaine thinks with a dull ache in his chest, he’s got a dozen phone numbers to choose from.

Blaine doesn’t know, can’t know, that Kurt’s been staring at the long-empty cup sitting on his desk all day, at the number that he’s already entered into his cellphone contacts, put into his computer, and scribbled down on several Post-Its throughout his office. Just in case.

The number he’s already memorized.

Blaine is on his final ten of his shift, eager to take the long subway ride home and scrub the scent-stain of coffee off his body. He’s sitting at the back of the store where there are fewer customers and nursing an iced coffee when his phone rings, buzzing on the table where Blaine had placed it.

His heart leaps into his throat at the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen and all the noise of the store seems to fade away.

“Hello?” Blaine answers, tentatively, trying to conceal the eager tightness in his throat. It could be anyone; a sales call, a wrong number, his brother from a hotel. Anyone. He props an elbow onto the table, drawing into himself just a little.

“Hi, is this Blaine?” His voice is light, almost breathless. Perfect. “This is Kurt. Uhm, customer-barista-relationship-boundary-crossing Kurt.”

Blaine bites down on the tip of his thumb to keep from making an embarrassing sound into the phone. “Hi, Kurt.” He holds the name on his tongue a beat too long, savoring it.

“Hi. I hope this is a good time. I couldn’t wait any longer to call you.”

“Oh,” Oh. “No, that’s - that’s fine.” Blaine wants to wriggle happily in his chair, wants to leap onto the table and belt out an aria.

“And Carrie wouldn’t let use the bathroom again until I did. She told me to call you, insisted really. She told me not to make you wait a moment longer even though I thought maybe I was going to come off too strong and pushy if I called you the second I got into the office, which is what I wanted to do. Who does she think she is? Doling out relationship advice like that? Like she knows what she’s talking about.”

Blaine huffs a laugh. He’s imagining Kurt pacing restlessly around his office, and maybe Carrie is grinning at him the open door, waiting expectantly for the outcome of the call. Up at the bar, Jeff is craning over the counter. He gives Blaine a thumbs up with a huge smile, and then switches to a thumbs down with an exaggerated frown. Blaine shakes his head, embarrassed, but giddy, and offers back his own thumbs up. Jeff whoops, startling a waiting customer, and almost knocks over a pitcher of milk.

“I’m glad you called.”

“Me too.” There’s a pause, and Blaine swears he can hear Kurt breathing. “So, I don’t know the finer details of your crazy schedule, but are you free tomorrow afternoon? I don’t work, and I figured you didn’t have class on the weekend.”

Tomorrow, Blaine thinks. Less than a day away.

“I’m free.” Blaine works that Sunday, but his Saturday is wide open. He tries to keep at least one day of every weekend (both if he can swing it) for homework and maybe a few moments to himself.

“Perfect. There’s a restaurant in Union Square, the Heartland Brewery. I’d like to take you there.”

Blaine knows the area, if not the restaurant. It’s not terribly far from where he lives, but it’s even farther from Kurt’s office. He wonders where Kurt lives. It doesn’t seem quite appropriate to ask.

“I don’t have a car.” Blaine says, worrying at his thumbnail with his teeth a little. I can’t pick you up, like a proper gentleman.

“I don’t either. Can you meet me on the corner of Union Square and 16th? There’s an old bank building with these great big columns. Can’t miss it. I’ll be there. The restaurant is a little ways away from where I want to take you after, but I love it. It’s got a special little place in my heart.”

Anything that’s dear to your heart is good enough for me, Blaine thinks, and he sees the pile of papers on his coffee table in his apartment. Those pages hold the notes of the color of Kurt’s eyes, and the verses of the curve of his back.

“What time?”

“Noon. Is noon good for you? I figured we could have lunch and then go for a little walk through the park. The weather is supposed to be perfect.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“Great, ok. I should, I should let you go. You’ve probably got a hundred customers demanding their afternoon dose of caffeine and I won’t be the one to cause the riot if they don't get it.”

Blaine’s pulse quickens just at the sound of Kurt’s laugh, heartier than the delicateness of his mouth would suggest.

“Tomorrow then?” Kurt asks. “Noon?” He suddenly sounds hesitant, curiously unsure, as if he’s double-checking that Blaine will be there. There’s no where else Blaine can imagine being.

“Noon.”

“Ok, see you then. Bye, Blaine.”

“Bye.”

Blaine is careful to save Kurt’s number into his phone contacts before he gets back to work, although he still doesn’t know Kurt’s last name. Nothing can ruin the rest of his day. Not the order of fifteen frappuccinos that comes in, all slightly different from each other. Not the carafe of milk that gets elbowed off the counter in the lobby and spills all over the floor. Not the kid who throws up in the bathroom. Nothing can dull the light in his heart nor dampen the bounce in his step.

***

Blaine is early for their date, date, but Kurt is even earlier, and Blaine slows his pace to let his eyes linger on the tall man who’s leaning with his ever-present casual grace against one of the building’s columns.

Kurt’s wearing jeans, the first time Blaine has seen him in a pair, and they skim the length of his long, lean legs without being uncomfortably tight. There’s an artful tear in the left thigh that Blaine tries not to linger on. He’s got a fitted, white shirt on with the top couple of buttons undone and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing his strong forearms, and a black vest buttoned up over the shirt. When he gets closer, Blaine spots a length of chain attached from Kurt’s lapel to his buttons and there’s even a pocket square tucked into the vest, a bright splash of red against the dark fabric. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of black wayfarers, and Blaine can only imagine what shade of blue they are today.

Blaine glances down at his own outfit. It took him forever to decide on the white pants that cling to his thighs and end above his ankles, and the navy and white striped shirt with the wide collar that does wonderful things to his shoulders. His boat shoes are his favorite pair and comfortable to walk in. The pants, well, the pants make his ass look incredible, not that that’s the reason he picked them. It’s not. That would be presumptuous of him.

He knows he has nothing in his limited closet that could compete with Kurt, but when Kurt suddenly turns his way, catches sight of him, and a smile quirks his mouth before his teeth bite down on his lower lip a little, Blaine thinks maybe he did all right.

“Blaine,” Kurt says, pushing away from the wall and taking a few steps towards him.

Blaine doesn’t know if they’re suppose to hug, or shake hands, or what, but Kurt makes the decision for him, ducking in and pressing a quick, light kiss to his cheek. Blaine’s breath catches in his throat and his skin burns with the memory of it all afternoon.

“Hi. You look great.” It’s not even an empty compliment; Kurt always looks amazing.

“Ah, thank you. It’s my favorite vest. You look lovely. It’s nice to see you out of that apron and those polos. And those pants are-” Kurt swallows, and Blaine watches in amazement as a blush stains his cheeks. “They look good on you.”

He noticed.

“Thanks.” Blaine wants to rub at the back of his neck nervously.

“Well,” Kurt clears his throat. “Shall we?” Kurt doesn’t quite take his arm to lead him down the block to the restaurant, but it seems like he wants to. Kurt’s fingers brush his wrist as they walk. “I thought we might sit outside?”

Blaine, who spends so much time indoors - at school, at work, in his apartment - relishes the chance to spend the whole day outside. It’s a perfectly lovely day for it too, just warm enough to leave his cardigan draped over the back of his chair and the breeze isn’t so strong as to blow their napkins around - just enough to ruffle Blaine’s curls and cool the back of his neck when Kurt’s gaze, bright and happy once he’s taken his sunglasses off and tucked them into his shirt, becomes too much.

He hasn’t been on a date in what feels like forever, but this, this is easy, sitting across from Kurt on a warm, late summer afternoon. Their knees don’t quite knock under the table, but their feet keep bumping together, and Blaine’s pulse quickens at every single touch. He leans his chin on the heel of his hand and just gazes at Kurt.

Kurt makes it easy, with his gift for conversation and quick, infectious smile. Blaine is perfectly content to listen as Kurt chatters away about his new job and where he went to school and what he studied. He says everything so nonchalantly - everything that he’s accomplished already, and those things that he wants next for his life. He talks about them with pride, yes, but without ego or arrogance, as if his accomplishments are merely goals he sought and attained. Kurt talks about himself as though he’s just a guy with a decent job who’s making a life for himself the best way he knows how, but Blaine is pretty sure Kurt’s the most interesting person he’s ever met.

And Kurt draws pieces of Blaine’s own story out of him, dissatisfied to let Blaine shrug and play it off like there’s nothing to tell. There is. The wide-eyed wonder in Kurt’s eyes when Blaine tells him that he’s going for his master’s in musical theatre writing and that he dreams of composing something for Broadway is enough to keep Blaine talking, even when he’s told Kurt more about himself than he thinks he’s ever told anyone else.

Blaine is pretty sure he could talk to Kurt past dinner and into the long hours of the morning, for as long as Kurt wants to listen. Quiet hope rises that Kurt might want that too.

The only hiccup comes (and Blaine knew it would), when the check arrives and he tries to slide some money onto the little tray, only to have Kurt pull it out of his reach and drop enough cash down for the waiter to take.

“Nope. Nice try. I asked you out - I pay.” Kurt grins at Blaine and nudges at his bare ankle with his foot before rising from his chair and grabbing for his jacket, waiting for Blaine to stand too. “You can ask me out next time and then you can pay.”

Next time, Blaine thinks, with helpless wonder bubbling inside of him.

***

When Kurt said they were going for a walk in the park, Blaine had assumed that meant at Union Square Park, just across the street from the restaurant. But Kurt’s plans are just bit grander. Blaine only realizes where they’re going when Kurt directs him down into the subway and they head north all the way up to the 81st street stop.

It’s a busy Saturday afternoon and the subway car is full of tourists and families going to the museum, or Central Park, like Kurt and Blaine are. But it means that the subway is standing room only, and the crowd presses Blaine close to Kurt. He’s shorter than Kurt, by a good couple of inches, and it brings him face to face with Kurt’s collarbone, the tender base of his throat. He’s sure he can see the fluttering of Kurt’s pulse under the thin skin and the urge to lean in closer, bury his face in that throat and breathe in deep, threatens to overwhelm Blaine. Kurt smells of some undoubtedly expensive cologne that Blaine can’t name, light and crisp, and of the warm summer air.

Blaine figures out where they’re going about five minutes into their stroll through the rolling green hills of Central Park, following the winding pathways towards their destination at the center, but he says nothing, just lets Kurt lead the way. The sunlight glints in the lighter highlights of Kurt’s hair and smoothes across his pale cheeks, and Kurt’s arm keeps brushing against his, skin against skin where both of their sleeves are pushed up. They could be touring the sewer system and he wouldn't care.

They stop when a large, granite structure rises up out of the scenery, perched up on a huge rock. Kurt’s almost bouncing on his toes in excitement, the way he did when Blaine said yes to their date.

“I present to you, the Belvedere Castle.” Kurt stretches his hands out towards the building, a clear ta-da. Blaine looks up at the restored castle and bites his lip.

“It’s meant to be a Victorian folly, although the architecture is really Gothic and Romanesque. Its only purpose is to be an interesting, yet completely overblown decoration. It’s kind of like having a beautifully tailored, perfectly understated tuxedo on, and then wearing a leopard print top hat and twirling a matching cane. Too much, you know?”

Blaine smiles at the image. “Sometimes there’s a time and place for a leopard print top hat.”

The grin Kurt flashes at him, surprised and delighted, sends a pleased shiver down Blaine’s spine.

“Want to go up to the top? You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“Not at all.”

Blaine follows Kurt into the castle and up the stairs to the top. The view from the terrace is magnificent, breathtaking, even if Blaine’s seen it a hundred times before. It’s arguably one of the best views of the park and of the skyline. New York is loud and bustling and frenetic, but Central Park is an oasis, still and silent, sunken down into the earth while the city rages above.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Kurt asks, leaning against the balustrade. The Great Lawn is stretched out beneath them, rolling and verdant, dotted with couples and families and tourists, and the pond glitters in the sunlight, ducks leaving ripples across the surface. Behind it all the city rises, effortlessly impressive.

But Blaine’s attention is elsewhere. He lets his eyes roam Kurt’s face – memorizing every freckle, every line. He doesn’t know if he’ll have a second chance to do this. He lingers on the line of Kurt’s jaw, the slope of his nose, the sweep of his eyelashes. The gradation of the color in his hair. There’s a scar on the side of his neck he wants to ask about.

Beautiful, Blaine thinks. Exquisite.

“I mean,” Kurt continues. Blaine realizes he’s stopped listening and is just staring at Kurt with what is probably the dopiest, mooniest expression ever. “I know it’s kind of clich�d and touristy and common, but come on! It’s Central Park. Everyone needs to experience a taste of it. It’s just so classic New York. What? What’s that look on your face?”

“I live here, Kurt.” Blaine smiles, tries not to laugh at the slightly affronted expression that crosses Kurt’s lovely features. “I’ve lived here going on five years.”

“Well shit,” he laughs and Blaine can hear the self-deprecation in it. “This is incredibly boring for you, isn’t it? Your name, your number - I just can’t seem to pull off suave and debonair with you, can I?”

“It’s not boring.” Blaine looks down, where Kurt’s hands are draped over the edge of the wall. He swallows and tastes something sweet, like hope. Like courage. He reaches out and takes one of Kurt’s hands in his, twining their fingers together. “I’m with you. It couldn’t possibly be boring.”

The smile that Kurt gives him over his shoulder is so sweet, so delicate is breaks something loose in Blaine’s chest that’s been lodged there for what feels like forever.

“You are adorable,” Kurt whispers and suddenly he’s leaning in, lips brushing so light, so tender across Blaine’s that he would swear he imagines it, if it weren’t for the shudder that wracks through him at the light touch, the way his heart pounds staccato against his ribs. He’s clutching at Kurt’s hand so tight it must hurt.

“Fish,” Blaine murmurs, brain so disconnected from his mouth he doesn’t even know he’s speaking until Kurt’s pulled back from him, just the slightest bit.

“I - what?” Kurt’s voice is rougher than usual, and the slightly deeper timbre sends a fresh wave of shivers through Blaine. He wants to hear every note that Kurt’s voice can make.

“I ate fish for lunch. My breath. I - I don’t have any gum.”

“Oh, Blaine. Let me show you how much I don’t care,” Kurt whispers, breath ghosting against Blaine’s mouth and then his lips are there again. Right there. Pressing warm and sweet and so fucking intimate it rocks Blaine to his core. A song is taking shape in his heart.

Blaine’s been kissed before, but not like this. Not like he’s some precious wonderful thing. He can hear the sharp intake of Kurt’s breath, feel the smile pressed against his own mouth. It’s cream and citrus and spice and Blaine wants to capture the taste, hold onto it forever.

And maybe there’s music playing softly somewhere in the distance. Another time Blaine will ask Kurt to dance with him to it.