Free Just Remember to Breathe by Charles Sheehan-Miles

what planet he came from that he came to enjoy running 15 or 20 miles on a regular basis. The Army put him on drugs, I’m sure of it now.
    “So, um, how far are we going?” I asked.
    “Not far,” he replied. “I haven’t been running since… well, before. I don’t want to push it too far.”
    “Do you always go this early?”
    “Yeah,” he said. “It’s… long standing habit, really. Plus, it’s not really muggy yet. You wouldn’t want to be running anywhere in noon heat, know what I mean?”
    He had a point.  
    And, after a few minutes, I realized something else. Even though I was breathing heavily, and my legs were starting to hurt, I was enjoying myself. Maybe too much.
    I could tell Dylan was really working at it now. He was loping along, every time his right foot came into contact with the sidewalk he lurched just slightly to the right. His lips were set in a grim line, face staring straight ahead.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    He nodded. “Yeah. Just got to remember to breathe. Two more blocks, and I think we walk back?”
    “Okay,” I said, really winded now.  
    “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah, just not used to this.”
    “We can slow down,” he said.
    “No, keep going.”
    We ran two more very painfully long blocks, then slowed to a walk.
    “You want to keep walking at a pretty decent pace,” he said. “Don’t come to a sudden stop. Helps your heart rate come back down to normal.”
    “Okay,” I said, feeling a little inadequate that I was having difficulty keeping up with someone who’d nearly lost his right leg just a few months ago. And, looking at his chest and arms, tight inside that t-shirt, I thought it would take a lot more than a short walk to bring my heart rate down.
    “You look kind of flushed,” he said, eyeing me closely.
    Jesus . I felt more heat run to my already overheated cheeks. Then it suddenly hit me. Dylan Paris was flirting with me. I snapped back immediately. “Yeah, well, chasing after guys does that to me.”  
    His eyes widened a little bit, and then he smirked.  
    I blushed a little more, as if that were possible.
    A few seconds later, he pointed. We were approaching Tom’s Restaurant, a diner just off campus.
    “Stop for breakfast?” he said. “It’s on me. Least I can do for you keeping me company.”
    Did I really want to let Dylan buy me breakfast? Where was this leading? Normally, all my caution signals would be up and blaring, but for some reason I just gave in without an argument.  
    “Sure, thanks.”
    Two minutes later we were sitting at a table in the garish, fifties styled diner. With bright red chairs, stainless steel equipment, and black and white checks everywhere, it was frightful to the eye. But also kind of comfortable. Not the diner. What was comfortable was being there with Dylan.
    A tired waitress who looked as if she’d been working all night came over and took our order. Me: a single scrambled egg, wheat toast with tomato slices and a glass of orange juice. Dylan ordered a ham and cheese omelet, pancakes, bacon, biscuits with gravy, coffee and hashbrowns. I don’t know where on the table they were even going to fit all that food.
    I couldn’t help it.  
    “Eat much?” I asked.
    He chuckled. “You get an appetite in the Army. I can put away some food these days.”
    While we waited for the wagon train to pull up with his breakfast, I asked him, “So, um… I know this is weird, but other than Doctor Forrester’s work, I don’t really know much about what you’re doing these days.”
    He leaned back and looked me in the eyes, an odd smile on his face. “That’s a pretty open-ended question,” he replied.
    Oh, wow. That was exactly what I’d said to him on an airplane a lifetime ago. “You remember that?”
    “I’d answer that, but I don’t want to break the rules.”
    “Very funny,” I said, wrinkling my nose at him.
    He grinned, and said, “All right, fair enough. You go first.”
    “What?”
    “I won’t say