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swiftjay23 · 5 days ago

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—★ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ʟɪᴋᴇᴅ ᴀ ʙᴏʏ ★—

✧･ﾟ: ⌗ 심재윤 ⌗ ✧･ﾟ:

─────✩𝐸𝑁𝐻𝑌𝑃𝐸𝑁

◜ᯅ— 今では彼は毎晩私のことを考えている —ᯅ◝

♡ ❝ι кιѕѕє∂ α gιяℓ αи∂ ι ℓιкє∂ ιт.❞ ♡

Pairing: Jake (Enhypen) x Reader (fem implied) Content Tags: high school au, slow burn, fluff, best friend zoey supremacy, dumb teenage feelings, window-to-window moments, jealous!reader, jealous!jake, spin the bottle, 7 minutes in heaven, kisses on the porch, dancing at parties, late-night texting, math class heart flutters, mutual pining, soft!nerd jake, tiny details that feel like a fever dream, reader is so so whipped, zoey is all of us Genre: fluff, teen romance, slice of life, nostalgia-core, a bit of crack Summary: You didn’t expect your final year of high school to feel like a coming-of-age movie, but then again, you didn’t expect Jake either. Between math class mishaps, window-to-window glances, and hallway butterflies, something about him makes you want to twirl in your room to your favorite song again. With Zoey’s chaotic commentary, soggy cafeteria lunches, and a spin-the-bottle party that turns everything upside down, you realize maybe high school is still magic. It’s light. It’s hazy. It’s young and stupid and full of heart, and it might just be love. Word Count: 14768

ᯅPlaylistᯅ

You were the kind of girl who made playlists for the month even if the songs kept changing. Who ripped paper into hearts when the teacher wasn’t looking. Who underlined words in novels just because they sounded pretty in your head. You weren't the main character, not really, but you liked to pretend. It made everything feel a little less unbearable.

Half the time, your mind was in some imaginary montage. A sparkly daydream starring a you that was cooler, cleverer, kissed under fireworks, maybe. You had a habit of assigning meaning to the smallest things, a pen left on your desk (a love letter in disguise), a glance held one second too long (a confession), a song playing in the store you walked into twice in one day (a sign, obviously).

So when you first saw him, it was already over for you. It was the first day of high school. A Monday, warm and stupidly bright, where everything smelled like new books, hot pavement, and secondhand nerves. You were waiting by the front gate, ID card flapping against your chest in the wind, lip gloss smeared slightly off-center from how many times you’d chewed your bottom lip, and that’s when he passed.

He wasn’t trying to be cool. He wasn’t even really looking at anyone. His shirt was wrinkled in that effortless way only some boys could pull off, and he had one headphone in like the world was just background noise. But what struck you most was the way his hair kept falling into his eyes, soft, fluffy, a little too long, and how he kept flicking it away, over and over, like the habit had been ingrained in him since birth.

And then, for one impossibly small second, his eyes met yours. A blink. A flicker. Barely a breath. But something tilted inside your chest like the needle of a compass suddenly pointing north.

That was it. No dramatic music. No slow zoom. Just that quiet kind of spark, the kind that starts small but burns for ages after. You didn’t even know his name. Didn’t know his voice. But already, you could tell: he was the kind of boy who ruined people in the softest, most accidental ways. You stared after him even when the bell rang. You stayed there a second too long, watching his back, his walk, the worn strap of his backpack. The grip he had on your heart was instant and completely unearned.

Also? He lived two houses down. And you hadn’t met each other face to face until this morning. Just your luck, huh? Because now, you’d have to survive him at school and at home, dodging each other in elevators, brushing past at the gate, maybe hearing music through the wall you shared if the wind blew right. It was too perfect. It was a curse. You were completely, hopelessly, fantastically doomed.

You remember the way the classroom smelled, like hand sanitizer and fresh notebooks, with a hint of something metallic that clung to the windowsills. The desks were arranged in crooked rows, one leg always wobbling, chairs squeaking every time someone leaned back too far. You could hear the low hum of the overhead fan above, spinning half-heartedly, stirring up little flurries of warm air.

Sunlight leaked in through the grimed-up windows, casting golden slats on the tile floor. It made everything glow, hazy and unreal, like you’d walked into the first scene of a coming-of-age movie. You took a seat near the window, of course. Because window seats were for dreamers, and because you liked having somewhere to look when you couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. The window was a soft escape, with the leaves outside swaying lazily, a dog barking faintly in the distance, and the occasional student rushing in late with their shirt untucked and tie half-done.

The classroom buzzed. Not with anything important, just the normal pre-class chaos. Girls comparing backpacks and gloss shades, someone passing around sour candy from a crumpled wrapper, boys boasting about how they definitely hadn’t studied but still planned to top the math quiz. That kind of thing. The desk behind you rattled as someone dropped their bag, and you heard the thump of sneakers hitting the floor.

A boy whispered something behind his hand and three others started snickering. On the opposite side, a girl flipped her hair like a weapon. Two seats over, someone was already doodling in the margins of their textbook. There was that electric kind of noise only high school classrooms had, unfiltered, fast-moving, filled with secrets and crushes and half-formed reputations.

And then the door creaked open. It wasn’t the teacher. It was him. Same soft brown hair. Same way-too-big hoodie. Same lazy flick of the bangs. You froze. The moment he walked in, time didn't stop, but your breath kind of did. Because even though you'd just seen him minutes ago outside the school gate, this felt different. Like you were seeing him again in a whole new lighting. Literally.

Sunlight haloed around him like a punchline. The golden kind. That romantic, late-afternoon kind that made everything shimmer. He blinked against it, and it caught the curve of his lashes. His eyes looked warm from here, like melted honey or old memories you weren’t supposed to remember yet.

You had no idea if he recognized you. But he sat two benches away. That was all it took. You couldn’t focus on a single word of the class introductions after that. Not your own. Not anyone else’s. Because the boy with the headphone and lazy bangs and hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket was in your class. For the whole year. Maybe longer. And the second your name was called, he looked up. Not for long. Just a blink. A flicker.

But he looked. And that, for some reason, made your pulse skip a beat. Like maybe, just maybe, this year would turn out different. The door clicked shut behind her, and a hush settled like dust over the class. She stood tall in front of the whiteboard, clipboard in hand, blonde hair tied up in a low knot, eyes crinkling as she offered the kind of smile students only ever got on the first day. “Morning, everyone. I’m Ms. Patterson, your homeroom teacher,” she began, her voice calm and clear, like waves lapping on a shore. “Let’s make this a good year, yeah?”

Some students were still craning their necks to whisper things to their desk partners. Others sat stiff in their chairs, like this was an exam and not just a new beginning. The sunlight streamed through the wide window panes, casting lazy golden lines across the linoleum floor, over tan school shoes and scuffed desk legs. The smell of fresh stationery, cheap cologne, and nervous sweat filled the room. Ms. Patterson clapped her hands once. “Alright, icebreaker time. We’ll go around the room. Name and something you like to do outside of school. Don’t overthink it, this isn’t graded.”

A few people groaned half-heartedly, but it was more out of tradition than actual complaint. The first girl stood up, fidgeting with her scrunchie. “Um, hi, I’m Mia. I like painting? Not like… good painting. Just, on walls, mostly. My room looks like a crime scene,” she said, and laughter bubbled around the room. A girl with long braids stood up. “I’m Andy. I like dancing.”

“Andy the Dancer,” Ms. Kapoor said, scribbling something on her list. “Nice.” Next boy: “Kevin. I game.” Next girl: “Melody. I bake cupcakes.” The whole class oohed. “You bake?!” “Bro bring some next time—” “She’s the class favourite already—” It kept going. Like a memory reel. One by one, each voice filling the room like color being poured into a blank sketch. Some kids stood tall and proud, names bold on their tongues. Others stumbled over their words, fingers fidgeting at their sides.

“Umm, I’m Zayaan, and I—I play the guitar. A little.” The class rippled with collective gasps. “I’m Tiffany, and I really like astronomy.” You could feel the energy shift as people started connecting. Oh, you play guitar too? I love stars. Wait, you follow that same webtoon I do?! Micro-friendships were forming before your eyes, silly and electric and kind of perfect. And then it was your turn.

You stood, tugged slightly at the hem of your plaid skirt, and forced yourself to speak louder than a whisper. “Hi, I’m Y/n” Your name sounded foreign in your mouth. “I like writing. Kind of cheesy stories. Romance. I guess I just like… making people feel things.” A few people smiled. A few nods. One quiet “Ooh.” Someone turned to whisper, “She gives writer girl energy.” You sat down, cheeks warm.

And then, two desks over, he stood up. “I’m Jake,” he said. Just that. Jake. Not hi, not hello, not even his full name. Just “Jake,” with a soft shrug and a sleepy voice and bangs falling into his eyes again. The whole row of girls in front of him physically tilted. Ms. Patterson raised an eyebrow. “Do you do anything besides breathe dramatically and wear that hoodie?”

A beat. He looked right at her, slow grin curling up one cheek. “I play football.” Of course he did. The class rippled with that stupid, hormonal gasp girls do when boys say they play sports. A few boys groaned. A girl fake-swooned. Someone muttered “He’s not even that hot,” which usually meant he was, in fact, that hot. But Jake didn’t seem to care.

He just sat back down, hoodie bunching at the elbows, gaze flicking lazily out the window. Like he hadn’t just caused a minor social earthquake. Your heart was still thudding stupidly. Because now you had a name to go with the boy who flicked his bangs and never talked. Jake. And somehow, you had a feeling he was going to be very, very hard to forget.

The bell rang. Not dramatically. Not like in the movies with some shrill clang that echoed off the walls and silenced everyone mid-conversation. No, it was just a soft, familiar ding, a sound you hadn’t realized you’d missed until now. And then? Chaos. Hallways flooded with teenagers moving like schools of fish. Backpacks slammed into shoulders. People screamed across lockers like they hadn’t seen each other two minutes ago in Chemistry. The scent of floor polish, over-sprayed cologne, and old textbooks hit all at once.

And in the middle of it: you and Zoey, dodging between bodies like pros. “I’m just saying,” Zoey huffed, clutching her glittery phone like it was a weapon, “if he’s still with Olivia after everything that happened at Kelsey’s pool party, then he’s got zero taste.” You blinked at her. “Isn’t she the one who had matching friendship bracelets with, like, half the football team?”

Zoey gasped like you’d just said a slur. “That’s not confirmed.” “It literally is. Someone posted a photo dump on Close Friends, babe.” “Okay, fine, but still. If Evan stays with her, I’m telling you now, I’m done believing in love.” You smiled, not because you agreed, but because Zoey was like this every year: dramatic, sun-kissed, and hopelessly in love with boys who barely passed math.

The cafeteria smelled exactly how you remembered it, burnt pizza, something vaguely metallic, and the underlying sadness of overcooked vegetables. And yet, the second your tray landed in front of you with a paper boat of soggy potato wedges and a chocolate milk that may or may not have expired yesterday, your chest swelled with something stupid and soft. “This,” you said with a sigh, stabbing a limp wedge, “is the taste of happiness.”

Zoey narrowed her eyes. “That’s the taste of a lawsuit. You’re gonna die.” You didn’t care. You really didn’t. You were too busy soaking in the overwhelming aliveness of it all.

Everywhere you looked, there was something happening: — A group of boys trying to see who could drink an entire juice box in one breath. — Two girls sitting with their heads close, whispering while scrolling through Instagram like they were reading sacred scripture. — Someone laughing too hard at something dumb. Someone else getting ketchup thrown at their shirt. — Laughter. Movement. Sound. All of it mixing into this chaotic teenage symphony that could only exist in places like this. School cafeterias. Lunch hours. Sixteen-year-olds acting like the world was ending because of a text left on read. You leaned back, the seat cold against your legs, and felt something like joy settle in your bones. And then, bathroom break. The girls’ bathroom during lunch was sacred territory. And it had its own unspoken laws. You pushed open the door and were immediately hit with a wall of perfume, Victoria’s Secret, body mists with names like Pure Seduction or Moon Petals, maybe a whiff of expired Bath & Body Works lotion someone had been hoarding since eighth grade.

There were three girls crowded around the mirror, lip gloss wands out like weapons. One was applying glitter to her inner corners. Another was redoing her ponytail like it was an Olympic event. One girl was practicing smiling at herself. Just enough teeth. Not too much. Tilt your head. There. Perfect. Someone else in the corner was whispering urgently into the phone.

“No, listen. He looked at her like she hung the moon. I swear. I’ve never seen him like that.” It was chaos. It was magic. It was girlhood in motion. You watched it all, the shimmer, the sweat, the soft clicks of compacts shutting, the smack of lips testing gloss, the shared gum, the traded rumors. It was loud and lovely and so utterly teenage that you wanted to bottle it up and never let it go. Somewhere between the laughter and lip gloss, you caught your reflection.

Same you. Same chipped nail polish. Same cracked phone case. And yet everything felt different now. A quiet shift, like something was about to begin. And maybe it already had. Because when you finally stepped outside, sun warming your face, binder tucked under one arm, you saw him. Leaning against the bike rack like he’d been carved there by some indie coming-of-age director. The wind caught in his hair just enough to lift it. His tie was loose. Shirt untucked. Eyes half-lidded. And he still hadn’t said a word to you since homeroom.

But your stomach dipped like you'd just gone over a hill too fast. Jake Sim. Your neighbor. The boy who hadn’t even looked at you twice before this semester. He glanced your way, flicked his bangs out of his eyes like some cliché, and gave you the tiniest nod.

Barely there. But it wrecked you. This wasn’t just any year. This was the year. The one you'd always remember.

Second period. Homeroom.

The classroom air was thick with post-summer restlessness and the smell of coconut-scented pens and mechanical pencil shavings. Desks screeched on linoleum as people kicked their bags under chairs, still too sun-drunk from break to function like decent citizens of society.

You were mid-rant to Zoey about how the cafeteria hash browns were basically criminal when Ms. Patterson clapped her hands once, loud enough to silence most of the room but not loud enough to stop the smirking whispers. Her smile was tight, but her tone was sugar-coated.

“Alright, sweetpeas. New term. You know the drill.” A unified groan rippled through the room like a spell. “Oh my god, no,” someone whispered. “Please not the seating chart again,” someone else hissed, already half-rising from their seat like they might escape. Ms. Patterson held up a perfectly laminated sheet of paper like it was the Holy Grail. “New term. New year. New seats.” She smiled like a kindergarten teacher. “Let’s start fresh.”

Groans deepened. You swore you saw a boy in the back mutter a full-on prayer. Your own stomach flipped, not out of dread, but the uncertainty. You liked your corner. You liked being next to Zoey. You liked not sitting near people who reeked of Axe body spray and threw paper balls for attention.

Zoey leaned toward you, eyes narrowed. “Place your bets.” You grinned. “If I don’t end up next to you, I’m burning the school down.” She fake-gasped. “Copycat. That’s my plan.” “And what if they put you next to Noah?” She visibly perked up. “If that happens, I’ll personally buy Ms. Patterson a latte every morning until graduation.” “And if you don’t?” She sighed dramatically. “I’m faking a seizure.” You snorted. But then, fate. Actual, chaotic, teen-romcom-level fate.

“Zoey Matthews,” Ms. Patterson called, scanning her paper, “you’ll be seated next to… Noah Grant.” You barely had time to react before Zoey squealed like she’d been proposed to. You nearly choked on your gum. Even Ms. Patterson paused and gave her a look. “No,” you whispered, half in awe. “No way.”

“YES WAY,” she whisper-screamed, already grabbing her things like she’d just won the lottery. You just grinned as she shot you a panicked thumbs-up, already half-way to the back corner where Noah slouched like he hadn’t just won the hormonal jackpot. Her texts came in immediately.

ZOEY 🌸:

OMFGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG I’M GOING TO DIE. I’M SITTING NEXT TO HIM. I CAN HEAR HIM BREATHE.I NEED A DEFRIBILLATOR. QUICK.

You didn’t have time to text back. Because then, “And Y/N… You’ll be next to Jake Sim.”

Your soul evacuated your body. Jake Sim. Your neighbor. The boy with sleepy brown eyes and wrists full of friendship bracelets he never explained. The boy who never talked at the bus stop but always nodded at you. The one who smelled like cheap cologne and sunscreen and something slightly like minty gum. Who flicked his bangs out of his eyes like it annoyed him to exist. The very cute, very tall neighbor you’d shared exactly four “hellos” with over the course of five years. He was already moving, long limbs, sleepy shuffle, toward the seat beside you.

And your heart? Oh, she was panicking. Jake didn’t say anything at first. Just slid into the chair beside you and sighed softly, like this was the very last place he wanted to be. Not annoyed. Not rude. Just… tragically beautiful and tired-looking. Like he accidentally stumbled into a coming-of-age movie. You froze. Your hands were suddenly very aware of themselves. Where did people normally place their hands?

Your phone buzzed again.

ZOEY 🌸OMFG

I REPEAT

EMMM

EFF

GEEEEE

You bit your cheek and didn’t look at her. Not when Jake slid into the seat next to yours, long legs stretching out beneath the desk, one knee bumping yours for half a second. “Hey,” he murmured, voice gravel-soft. You blinked. “Hi.” Your phone buzzed again.

ZOEY 🌸 IF YOU DON’T MAKE OUT WITH THIS HOT NERD BY THE END OF THE DAY, I SWEAR TO GOD, I WILL.

Your throat burned trying to hold in a laugh. You didn’t even turn to look at her. You could feel her vibrating three desks away. Jake glanced over, and one corner of his mouth twitched—like maybe he was trying not to smile. You texted back with trembling fingers.

Z. You have a boyfriend.

Three dots. Then:

ZOEY 🌸:

… Bummer. Couldn’t you have reminded me later.

Jake cleared his throat beside you. You flinched. “You okay?” he said softly. His voice was low, slow. Like warm molasses. You blinked up at him. “Me?” He smiled. A little. Just the corner of his mouth. “You’ve been glaring at your phone like it killed someone.” You flushed all the way to your ears. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Just… girl stuff.” He raised an eyebrow, amused. “Cool.” Cool?

You were not cool. You were the opposite of cool. You were a pile of sweaty nervous system and crushing hormones. Jake Sim turned back to the front of the class, as if he hadn’t just walked into your personal fantasy and made himself at home. You stared down at your notebook. Zoey sent you six more messages before Ms. Patterson confiscated her phone.

And all the while? Jake’s knee kept brushing yours under the desk. Just barely. Just enough to make you insane. Math was hell. You knew it the moment you walked in and the air itself felt thicker, like even the walls knew how much everyone in here wanted to die. The fan on the ceiling spun lazily, too bored to offer real relief. The whiteboard still had half-erased formulas scrawled from the previous class, and the lights? Fluorescent and offensive.

You plopped into your seat, heart still rattling with laughter from Zoey’s text. You'd snorted at your screen, then quickly shoved it into your bag when the teacher walked in. And then? You opened your math notebook. Stared at the page. The equations stared back. There were numbers where letters should be, letters where logic should be, and something about cosine that made you want to eat the textbook out of the window. You tapped your pencil against your desk, over and over. First slowly. Then faster.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. TapTapTap—

You weren’t even aware of how fast you were going. Your leg bounced beneath the desk, your foot tapping in full anxiety rhythm, your brain fogged with fractions and fury. Why is there a goddamn integral sign? Why is Jake already on question 7?? WHY CAN’T I REMEMBER HOW TO DO THIS WHEN I WAS FINE JUST LAST YEAR??

Your hand fisted your pencil so hard it creaked. You stared at the graph on your worksheet like it had personally insulted you. Maybe it was the nerves. Maybe it was the fact that Jake Sim was sitting exactly three inches away from you, scribbling answers with his sleeves rolled up and the tendon in his wrist flexing every time he solved a problem like it didn’t require real pain and bloodshed. Until, a hand reached over and gently, calmly, pressed yours down.

You blinked. It wasn’t your pencil he stopped. It was your knee. Jake’s hand slid over it with zero hesitation, warm and calloused and very much there. It rested gently, fingers curling around the cap of your knee as his thumb tapped once, once! against your thigh, just below your skirt’s hem.

Your breath caught in your throat. He still didn’t look at you. Just kept solving math like he wasn’t casually setting your whole life on fire. “I couldn’t concentrate,” he murmured, voice low and quiet. That was it. That’s all he said. And then he kept. Writing. You were about to ascend into another dimension. Your cheeks burned, your pulse skittered, and your foot was frozen mid-air, like your body didn’t quite know whether to flee, faint, or just start crying. His hand stayed.

He wasn’t even teasing you. He just… grounded you. You stared at the half-finished problem on your sheet again and this time? You wrote the wrong answer three times. And still didn’t care. You weren’t exactly trying to talk to him. It just sort of… slipped out. One minute you were hunched over your notebook, scribbling half-legible numbers while your brain actively combusted trying to figure out if the derivative of a constant was zero (it was), and the next, you were staring at him like he held the goddamn meaning of life between his fingers.

“So,” you said, voice dry, fingers picking at the spiral edge of your notebook, “do you ever think this is all a social experiment? Like, high school. They trap us in this heatbox, feed us mystery meat, throw in hormones and graphing calculators, and just watch us implode.” Yup, you were definitely possessed. Maybe it was the way his hair caught the light, honey-brown and tousled in the late afternoon glow. Maybe it was the quiet confidence with which he solved every equation, as if math whispered secrets in his ear. Or maybe it was the sheer boredom gnawing at your brain like a rat in a cereal box. You expected silence.

Instead, Jake's pencil paused mid-loop. He didn’t look at you, just muttered without missing a beat, “I already imploded. Sometime around Ms. Patterson's fourth ‘good morning.’” It took you a second. And then it hit you, so stupidly hard, the kind of deadpan delivery that made your snort echo off the walls before you could even stop it. Not the polite kind. No, the full-body snort, the embarrassing one, the kind that made Zoey elbow you under lunch tables and hiss act like a lady through gritted teeth.

“Oh my god—” you slapped your hand over your mouth.

Jake blinked. Glanced sideways. Raised one unimpressed eyebrow like he hadn’t just committed comedic genius in front of your very soul. You were still snorting into your palm, cheeks burning, trying to keep your laughter in your mouth and not burst out your eyes. “You can’t just say that—” He shrugged. “Don’t start if you can’t handle the consequences.” “I will handle you.” “I’d like to see you try.”The thing was… you were whispering. Barely above a breath. And yet everything about it felt too loud, too much. The beat of your pulse in your ears, the heat of your knees under the desk, the way your foot kept tapping the floor, and how, without even glancing up from his worksheet, Jake reached out and gently placed his palm over your leg. One hand steadying your knee, fingers warm and easy. Like it was second nature. Like he'd done it a hundred times before.

“Stop bouncing,” he said, still focused on his page. But his hand lingered. And your pulse skyrocketed. You didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Because his skin was warm and dry and grounding, and suddenly it was too hard to breathe with the smell of pencil shavings and cheap deodorant and his shampoo all tangled in the air between you.

The classroom buzzed softly, chalk on the board, someone flipping pages, the faint hum of the old AC unit grumbling in the window, but it felt like it all quieted around you. Like it all blurred out at the edges, leaving just his fingers on your knee and your stupid heartbeat crashing against your ribs like it had something to prove.

So you tried to distract yourself.

You leaned over, a little closer, pretending to look at his worksheet even though the numbers made absolutely no sense. “Hey,” you whispered again, tugging at a frayed string on your sleeve, “what’s a math teacher’s favorite place to shop?”

Jake didn’t answer. Didn’t look up. Just muttered, deadpan: “Times Square.” You giggled. Actually giggled. Like a sugar-high kid on the last day of school. “That was awful,” you said, grinning stupid. “Your fault for trying.” You were still smiling when Mr. Grace came in.

Still leaning slightly toward Jake when a hand tapped your shoulder, firm, unmistakable, and you turned to find your teacher staring down at you with the face of a man who regretted his entire degree. You shrank back immediately, whispering a mortified, “Sorry, sir,” as Jake calmly resumed pretending he didn’t know you existed. He gave you the teacher look™, one part disappointed dad, one part “I don’t get paid enough for this”, and walked off to the front of the room. You narrowed your eyes at Jake.

“You just let me crash and burn.” He didn’t look up. “Self-preservation.” “Coward.” “I’ve been called worse.” You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. And maybe it was stupid, but for that brief, buzzing moment, amid pencil scratches and the glow of sunlight striping across faded desks, everything felt electric.

Not dramatic. Not loud. Just… slow, soft, saturated. Like someone had dialed up the colors of your life and slipped in a melody only your chest could hear. You looked at him. And knew, deep in the hollow of your ribs, you were so screwed.

It was Saturday. The kind that melts like syrup, slow, sticky, warm. Your room is a mess of nostalgia and chaos. Clothes draped over your desk chair, a half-finished sketch on the floor, the remnants of yesterday’s nail polish scattered across your dresser. The window’s cracked open, letting in that dry, lemony heat that only an Australian summer can carry. Outside, cicadas hum like they’ve got secrets.

Inside, you’re dancing barefoot on the hardwood floors, twirling in an old sleep shirt and a pair of shorts that have definitely seen better days, eyeliner from the day smudged slightly under your eyes. The music playing from your Bluetooth speaker is one of your comfort songs, something indie and girly, with tambourines and messy vocals, the kind that makes your heart ache a little for no reason. You’re not thinking about anyone.

You’re just being. Air-guitaring with a hairbrush, mumbling the lyrics with a dramatic pout, letting your body fall into exaggerated, clumsy spins. You flop backward onto your bed like you’re in a rom-com montage, arms spread out like a starfish, giggling to yourself at absolutely nothing. You leap onto your bed dramatically, bouncing with exaggerated flair, throwing a pillow into the air like you’re in a music video. You twirl, laugh to yourself, mouth the lyrics to a song you’ve heard a million times.

And then you roll over. And you see him. Across the fence, two windows over. Propped up against the windowsill in his own room, half-hidden by the fluttering curtain, Jake.

You freeze. For a second, you think he’s reading. But no, he’s watching. Head tilted into one hand, elbow perched on the ledge, eyes soft behind the smudged glass of his glasses. His hair’s slightly messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it all day. His button-up is unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up to the elbow. A textbook is open on the desk beside him, forgotten. And he’s staring. Straight at you.

Not in a creepy way. Just… quiet. Like you’re a scene he doesn’t want to interrupt. Like you’re a secret summer movie playing just for him. Your cheeks burn. Your first instinct is to duck. Hide. Pull the blinds shut and pretend you didn’t see anything. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. Big and dumb and unfiltered. You throw your arms out like a magician finishing a trick. Raise both thumbs with exaggerated flair. Mouth, “You good?” Jake blinks, startled. He hadn’t realized he was being caught. His lips twitch into the ghost of a grin, and then, with a sleepy, one-handed sort of charm, he lifts a single thumb in return.

And you swear to God, it feels like a first kiss. You twirl again. Slower this time. A little more graceful. A little more aware. You leap onto your bed again, tossing your arm over your eyes to hide your smile, heart drumming like a movie score just hit crescendo.

You dive under your duvet like it’s a war tactic, clutching your phone as if it could absorb your embarrassment. Your fingers fly over the keyboard, brain still dizzy from the boy-shaped blush currently heating up your whole face.

You: ZOEY.You: ZOEY ZOEY ZOEY.You: HE SAW MEYou: I WAS DOING THE BRITNEY DANCE FROM 2003 IN A SLEEP SHIRTYou: I THINK I EVEN AIR-GUITARED WITH A HANGER

Three dots appear immediately.

Zoey 💅🏼: STOP.Zoey 💅🏼: YOU’RE LYING.Zoey 💅🏼: DID HE LOOK HORRIFIED?? OR FERAL??

You stifle a scream into your pillow.

You: Z.You: HE DIDN’T EVEN LAUGHYou: HE JUST WATCHED ME LIKE I WAS A SCENE IN A STUDIO GHIBLI FILMYou: THEN GAVE ME A THUMBS UPYou: WHO DOES THAT???

Another pause. Then:

Zoey 💅🏼: okay. listen.Zoey 💅🏼: that’s boyfriend behavior.Zoey 💅🏼: you’ve officially entered main character status and I am just a humble sidekick.Zoey 💅🏼: TURN THE VOLUME UP AND MAKE HIM FALL IN LOVE, BABY

You laugh so hard your chest physically aches. The kind of laughter that only comes with being 16, alive, and stupid in love with someone who once passed you a pencil in homeroom. You toss your phone aside and sit up again, brushing your hair back, peeking at the window like it might still hold some boy-shaped wonder.

And maybe it does. Because when you glance again, he’s still there. Still watching. Still soft. You roll your eyes with a grin, crank the volume on your speaker all the way up, and hit play on your playlist. If you’re going to be delusional, you might as well be loud about it. You twirl once more, arms outstretched, hair flying, until you collapse on your bed in a dramatic heap, laughing at yourself. Your music hums in the background, the sunset bleeding syrupy gold through your blinds. And then, a flicker.

He doesn’t reply. Just shakes his head like he’s suffering through this. You watch as he reaches for something on his desk, his eyes still on you. Then, folds begin to take shape. It’s quick. Precise. Unbothered. And then he holds it up: a paper airplane, creased to imperfection, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You sit up, mouth parted. Hands in your lap like oh no he didn’t. And then he throws it. Misses. Spectacularly. It nose-dives straight into the hedge.

You blink. Then absolutely burst out laughing. Jake just deadpans. Shrugs. Grabs another sheet. You wave your arms at him from behind your glass, pretending to coach his throw. He mimics your flailing, then sends the second plane sailing. It flutters. Dips. Wobbles, and lands, with miraculous grace, on your window sill.

You hold your breath, and you pick it up like it’s treasure, unfold it gently, and read the scrawled words in neat block handwriting: “So… what song was that supposed to be? You were doing choreography, but I couldn’t tell if it was K-pop or a mental breakdown.”

You gasp like he’s just insulted your ancestors. Grab a pink Post-it. And the window-to-window war begins. "It was Britney, you uncultured worm. And I was performing. Not twitching." You press it to your window with exaggerated care. He reads it, smirks, grabs a blue sticky note and slaps it against his window: "Performing?? You knocked over a cup of pens and fell into your closet."

You dramatically mime fainting. Then scribble back, now in sparkly purple pen: "Okay, and??? Rihanna wishes she had that range." He laughs this time, fully, shoulders shaking, head tipping back. You see his teeth. It makes your chest squeeze in the worst/best way. You sit down cross-legged on your bed and hold up another note: "What were you doing with those sleeves rolled up, huh? What is this, a Wattpad fic??" Jake feigns horror. But his next Post-it simply reads:

"Don’t make me write you into one." Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then curls into the slowest smile in recorded history. You scribble furiously: "Too late." You press it to the glass. Watch him blink. Watch his ears go pink. Then he writes: "You’re trouble." You: "You like trouble." And he doesn’t reply after that. Doesn’t need to. Because he’s still looking.

And this time, he doesn’t look away.

The next morning, everything feels… off. Not in a bad way. Just in that confusing, slightly-too-vivid way where the world suddenly looks like it’s been dipped in rose gold. The sunlight streaming through the windows feels like it’s trying to whisper secrets. Your uniform sits strange on your skin, like your body knows something’s changed, even if your brain won’t admit it yet. You tug on your skirt. Retie your shoelace even though it isn’t loose. When you pass by your hallway mirror, you almost don’t recognize the girl in it, soft smile, slightly puffy eyes, that stupid dreamy look that you can’t shake. And then there’s him. Jake, already at his locker, hoodie sleeves rolled up, bangs flopping into his eyes, and the exact same bored look on his face like he didn’t just throw two paper airplanes at you through your window yesterday. Like he didn’t sit there in a crumpled T-shirt with his chin in his palm, watching you twirl like a drunk ballerina.

He doesn’t even say anything. Just gives you the smallest nod. A blink. A half-smile that may or may not be real. But his hand pauses on the locker door like maybe he’s waiting for you to say something first. You don’t. Your heart is already sprinting toward your next class. You walk faster than usual, cheeks burning. Everything feels too charged. Every voice in the hallway sounds like it’s echoing directly inside your chest.

And then, “BABE!”

Zoey barrels into you from the side, full of perfume and glitter and just way too much 8:30 AM energy. She's wearing pink lip gloss and five too many bracelets, and she’s waving at literally everyone like she’s on the red carpet. “Hi Sam! Oh my god, love your scrunchie! Morning, Aria! Babe—babe, guess what happened, oh, wait, I already know, YOU tell me, actually, no—I tell you—what the hell happened with Jake the Hot Nerd last night?!”

“Zoey—” “I saw it through my window! You were literally dancing in a Taylor Swift music video, and he was watching you like he was about to write a love song about your dumb little spins.” “ZOEY.” “Okay, okay, okay, slow down and tell me—” You groan and bury your face in your hands, but she loops her arm around yours and drags you out toward the courtyard, waving and throwing finger-hearts at the juniors as she passes.

“You were having a moment,” she sings. “He threw a paper airplane at me. That’s not fate. That’s elementary school violence.” you mumble.

“Did it have writing?” “…Yes.” Zoey gasps like you’ve just admitted to murder. “YOU'RE DONE. HE’S IN LOVE WITH YOU! That’s basically a marriage proposal.” You laugh despite yourself, tripping a little as she yanks you up the bleacher steps and plops you down in your usual spot.

And then, Zoey does the one thing she never does. She goes still. No winking. No squealing. Just... looks at you with a soft, genuine kind of seriousness. Her hand finds yours. “Hey. For real.” Her voice is gentler now, almost nervous. “Do you like him?” You freeze. Like him? You blink down at your hands. You pick at the chipped edge of your nail polish. Your heart's skipping double-dutch in your chest.

You think of the way he writes. The dry jokes. The hand on your knee during math. The way he looked last night, bare-faced, glasses slipping down his nose, biting a grin as he watched you dance through your own bedroom like a lunatic. But also… the fact that you haven’t even known him that long. That maybe you’re projecting. That maybe it’s just the idea of him, of a neighbor crush, of a fantasy you’re letting grow in the garden of your mind where it’s too easy to water things that don’t actually exist.

“…I don’t know,” you admit softly. And it’s the truth. “I don’t know if I like him, Z. He’s—he’s quiet. I can’t read him. And it’s probably stupid. Maybe it’s nothing.” Zoey squeezes your fingers gently. You glance up. She’s smiling. “Butterflies?” she asks. You pause. Bite your lip. Then, quietly: “…He gives me butterflies.” Her grin widens. “That’s not nothing, babe.”

And you don’t say anything else. But your eyes stay on the sky. Your heart’s still tangled in strings. Because liking someone? Liking someone is terrifying. But also? It kind of feels like flying.

It starts slow. You and Jake talk more now. Not all the time, not the way you and Zoey yap nonstop like you’re on a never-ending podcast, but enough that it starts to feel like second nature. He says stuff like: “You tap your pen exactly eight times when you’re stuck on a question.” You squint. “No, I don’t.” “Yeah, you do. I counted. And then I answered it for you.” And you say stuff like: “Why do you write your sevens like that? Are you French?” “Why do you draw hearts on your notebook margins every time you think I’m not looking?”

(Touché.)

It’s light. Easy. Borderline flirty. You roll your eyes a lot, but you also doodle him once in your math book when you’re bored (you give him cat ears, naturally). You’ve started poking him with the end of your ruler when he’s being annoying. He flicks paper balls into your hair. It’s become your language. But Zoey’s not buying your “we’re just friends” act.

She’s on a mission. Every time he glances your way, she’s elbowing your ribs like her life depends on it. Every time you so much as smile in his direction, she starts whisper-singing “You Belong With Me” under her breath. “Z, stop,” you hiss during class, cheeks blazing. “It’s nothing.” “He just looked at you for ten straight seconds.” “He was zoned out!” “He smiled.” “He does that.” “He smiled like you invented happiness, you liar.”

And you? You keep denying it. You keep pretending like your heart doesn’t race when his hand brushes yours reaching for the same worksheet. You keep ignoring how you almost froze when he quietly offered you half of his lunch, "You don’t like the cafeteria pasta, right? I remember."

You keep telling yourself it’s casual. You’re not in love with Jake. No. You’re not. You’re perfectly fine. Everything’s fine. You just… can’t stop noticing him. Noticing the way he absentmindedly spins his pen between his fingers like it’s muscle memory. Noticing how he always saves you the blue highlighter during study hall because he knows it’s your favorite. Noticing how he wears his hoodie halfway off his shoulders like he’s unaware he’s starring in your delusions. It’s not like you look for him.

It’s just that your eyes sort of… gravitate. Totally normal. Totally not crushing. Until today. Because today, during lunch, the universe decides to absolutely wreck you. You’re just sipping on your juice box, sitting with Zoey and half-listening to her dramatic retelling of someone’s weekend scandal, when your eyes flick toward the lockers.

And you see him. Jake. Smiling. Laughing. With her. You don’t even know her name. Blonde hair. Glossy lips. Perfect skin. She’s leaning in close. Touching his arm lightly as she says something that makes him grin. You blink. Your stomach drops like an elevator with cut cables.

It shouldn't matter. You’re not dating him. You’re not even talking-talking to him. He's just your classmate. Your kind-of friend. The boy who passes you gum in class and says dry jokes that make you snort. The boy who keeps your twitching leg still during math with one casual hand. That's it. So then why does your throat feel tight? Why are you gripping your juice box so hard the sides are caving in? "Zoey," you say, barely above a whisper. "Mmm?" She’s texting someone with one hand and stuffing her face with a granola bar with the other. Peak multitasking.

"Zoey, I’m gonna murder someone." She blinks, mid-bite. “Huh?” You point. Subtly. Not-so-subtly. Full stab of the finger in his direction. “Who is that girl?” She cranes her neck. “What, her?” She smirks. “Ooooh. You mean the one currently giggling like she’s auditioning for a shampoo ad?” You glare. “Don’t make jokes right now. I’m in a crisis.” Zoey takes one long, dramatic sip of her iced coffee before nodding solemnly. “Okay. Go on.” “I hate her.” “I gathered.” “She’s laughing at everything he says. He’s not even that funny! I know, I sit next to him everyday, his jokes are like… 5.5 out of 10 at best.” “And yet,” Zoey sings, raising an eyebrow. “You’re fuming.”

You inhale like a person in yoga class trying not to explode. “I’m not fuming.” “You’re one sharp breath away from flipping the table.” You glance again. They’re still talking. She’s flipping her hair. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, smiling shyly. That smile. The one that makes you want to scream and cry and throw your biology textbook at a wall. Your voice drops, quiet and deadly. “I will kill her.” Zoey snorts. “And there it is.” You turn to her. "I'm serious."

"Oh, I know." "She's flirting with him like she invented the concept. With her, her dumb glossy lips and, her perfect laugh and, and her annoying smile—" “Dumb glossy lips?” Zoey repeats, wheezing. “I can’t take this,” you whisper, completely unironically. “I’m gonna explode. Like a toaster in a bathtub. I swear to God, Zoey, he’s mine.” "Say that again?"

You huff. "He's mine. He just, he doesn't know it yet." Zoey just stares at you, wide-eyed, beaming like she just won the emotional jackpot. “I knew it,” she whispers. “You like him. You like-like him. Like teen movie style. Like diary-entry, scribble-his-name-in-your-notes style. Like—” “I HATE this,” you growl. “He’s so smart and mysterious and sarcastic and warm when he wants to be, and sometimes I swear he looks at me like I’m the only person in the room and I’m losing my MIND—” “Babe. Babe. Baaaabe.”

You stop mid-rant. “What?” Zoey’s gently patting your shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re screwed.” And for once, you don’t argue. Because yeah. You are. You’re so screwed. And somewhere, not too far away, Jake is still leaning against the lockers. Still laughing. Still clueless. But not for long.

You’re quiet in Math class. Too quiet. Usually, by now, you’d have made at least one sarcastic comment about parabola graphs or passed him a note with a dumb doodle of Mr. Grace and his tragic bald spot. But right now? You’re too busy stewing. Jake is calm as ever, leaning back in his chair, hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow, solving equations like he wasn't just smile-laughing with Lip Gloss Barbie fifteen minutes ago. And that shouldn't bother you. Except it really, really does. You're tapping your pen against the desk, lips pressed into a pout, chewing your cheek like it’s bubblegum. The jealousy sits in your stomach like hot soda, bubbling and fizzy and impossible to hide. Jake glances at you out of the corner of his eye. And smirks. “What's with you?” he murmurs, low and teasing, just loud enough for you to hear.

“Hm?” you don’t even glance at him. “You’re making that face again.” “What face?” “That one. The ‘I’m pretending I’m not upset but I’m literally plotting world domination in my head’ face.” You turn to glare at him, brows twitching. “I am not.” He leans forward a little, mouth tugging into a grin, eyes flicking to your furrowed brows. “You're also stabbing your paper like it insulted your entire bloodline.” You look down. Yeah. You may have, in fact, turned your poor math worksheet into a battlefield of torn holes and scribbled rage.

You huff and cross your arms. Jake raises a brow, still smirking. “Okay, seriously. What’s got you this dramatic today?” You blink at him. Once. Twice. “Nothing.” “Liar.”

You glare. He grins harder. Then he leans in, voice a little softer, like it’s just between you two. “Wait… are you—” his eyes narrow a bit in mock understanding, “—jealous?” You freeze. Then scowl. “No.” “You sure? Because you’ve been looking at me like you want to push me down a flight of stairs since lunch.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then finally, pout. Arms still crossed. “If you were jealous,” Jake says, voice playful, “that’d be kind of cute.” You snap your eyes toward him, face burning. “Shut up.” “Just saying.” “I said shut up.” He just laughs quietly, like he’s enjoying this. Like your absolute spiral is his favorite brand of entertainment. So you mutter under your breath, arms still crossed, chin slightly raised, face flushed all the way to your ears: “...I’ll show you jealous.” Jake pauses. And something changes in his face.

Like he’s trying really hard not to audibly coo. His brows lift, lips twitching, then he laughs, actually laughs, but it’s soft, caught in his throat like it surprised him. “Oh my god,” he says. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.” “I’m not mad—” “Fine, fine,” he says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re not mad. You’re terrifying. I fear for my life.” “Jake.”

He leans closer, real low, all boyish grin and whispery hush, like he’s telling you a secret. “You’re adorable.” You smack his arm with your notebook. He just laughs again, like you lit a fire in him he didn’t know he needed. And even though you're still pouting, still fuming, still very much not over Glossy Barbie, you’re smiling a little. God help you.

It starts the next day. Jake’s bolder. Not in a look-at-me-I’m-the-man kind of way—but the subtle, I-know-you-like-me-and-I’m-gonna-mess-with-you kind. Like how he starts leaning a little closer when he talks. Like how he taps your shoe under the desk just to make you glance at him. Like how, in the middle of science, he passes you a folded note. And written in perfect, stupidly neat handwriting, it reads:

You free Saturday?

You raise an eyebrow, scribble back:

Depends. Why? You finally gonna let me copy your homework?

He reads it. Smirks. Then writes back:

Nah. Party. You're coming. With me.

Your heart skips. And when you look up at him, lips parted, unsure how to respond, he just winks. Freaking winks. You try to act cool about it. You don’t tell Zoey right away (because you know she’ll scream), but she senses something immediately. She corners you at your locker and asks what’s up. You shrug, nonchalant. “He just asked me to this thing on Saturday. Casual.”

Her scream echoes halfway down the hall. “OMFG, YOU’RE GOING TO A PARTY WITH HIM, AS A DATE???” “I didn’t say date.” “You didn’t say no, either!” “…Shut up.” By Saturday evening, you're pacing your room like a maniac. You’re spiraling. There’s no other word for it. You’ve redone your eyeliner three times, tried on five different dresses, and Zoey has been on FaceTime with you the entire time, dramatically flopping on her bed like she’s the one going on the date. “Oh my GOD, turn around again, YES, that one!” she squeals.

You do a slow spin in front of the mirror, your black sundress twirling just a little around your thighs. It’s fitted in the bodice with delicate straps and a soft neckline, flaring out into the perfect, fluttery skirt. Paired with simple white sneakers and a hint of gloss on your lips, you’re somehow both cute and deadly. “Okay but what if he thinks I’m trying too hard?” you mutter, fidgeting with the strap of the dress. “If he thinks that,” Zoey says, sitting upright like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk, “he has no taste, and I’m fighting him at the party. Like literally hands will be thrown.” You laugh nervously. “What if no one else dresses up? What if everyone there’s just… like… cool? In jeans and hoodies? What if I look stupid?”

“Then you’ll be the hottest idiot in the room. Who cares?” she grins. “You’re the main character, babe. Own it.” You smile. Barely. Your heart is hammering. You adjust the dress again. Reapply lip gloss. Fiddle with your hair. Then your phone buzzes.

Jake 🧠: Outside ;)

You freeze. “Zoey,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Zoey. ZOEY. HE’S HERE—” She shrieks. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S HERE??” “He just texted! He’s outside, outside my freaking door.” “Did you, did you check if your fly’s down?! Is your dress zipped?! Did you spray perfume?!” “I, I don’t remember—” “DO A 360. RIGHT NOW. SPIN, GO!” You spin in front of the mirror, hair bouncing, heart racing.

Then you hear it. A knock. Soft. Two taps. Calm and sure. He didn’t go to the window this time. He knocked on your door. “OH MY GOD,” you whisper, throwing your phone onto the bed in panic. “HE’S LITERALLY AT MY DOOR. WHAT DO I DO?” “OPEN IT, YOU MANIAC!” Zoey is laughing hysterically on the screen. “Go! GO! Before he thinks you fell asleep or ghosted him!” You inhale. One last glance in the mirror.

You can do this. You’re a composed, intelligent, beautiful young woman. You are not about to lose your mind over a stupid black sundress and a boy with floppy hair. You open the door. And there he is. Leaning against the doorframe like a teen movie fantasy, grey hoodie under a denim jacket, dark jeans, hands in his pockets. His hair is still a little messy, like he ran a hand through it too many times. He looks up. Oh, you were definitely about to lose your mind over a boy with floppy hair.

And freezes. For a second, he just stares. His eyes flick over the dress. The faint shimmer on your collarbone. Your nervous hands clutching the hem. “…Hi,” he says, after what feels like forever. You can barely speak. “Hi.” He exhales softly. “You look…” Pause. “Nice.” You blink. “Nice?” He grins. “Shut up.” You raise an eyebrow. “You came to my door, Sim. I deserve at least a gasp or a damn.” He chuckles under his breath, scratching the back of his neck. “Fine. Damn.”

You smile. He smiles. Then, like it’s nothing, he reaches up, fingers brushing lightly over a strand of hair near your face. and tucks it behind your ear. “You ready?” You try not to combust. “I—uh—yeah. I guess.” “You guess?” “…Shut up and take me to the party, Sim.” He holds up his hands. “As you wish, Your Highness.” Somewhere, your phone buzzes again on your bed, Zoey, no doubt losing her mind. But you don’t check it. Because Jake is holding out his hand. “Ready?” he asks. And this time, you are. You take it.

The second the front door opens, the party hits you like a wave. Pulsing music, the hum of conversation, the clink of cups and the sound of someone already shouting something dumb from the kitchen. There’s a string of fairy lights tangled across the ceiling, casting everything in warm golden tones, broken only by flashes of neon pink and blue from someone’s LED strips. And then, “Oh my God,” you gasp, tugging Jake’s sleeve. “This is my song!” He raises a brow. “You have a song?” You don’t explain. You just grab his hand, eyes gleaming, and pull him straight into the living room-turned-dancefloor. And he follows. Chuckling. A little wide-eyed.

It’s packed, swaying bodies, spilled drinks, someone doing a very questionable TikTok dance in the corner, but none of it matters. Not when the beat drops and the lights flash and you’re dancing like you’ve never had a single care in the world. Jake, at first, kind of just bobs, awkward and adorable. Until you take both his hands in yours and raise them above your head, spinning under them like a scene straight out of a Netflix original. You’re laughing. Glowing. And Jake’s looking at you like he’s never seen you before.

Like you’re a planet with your own gravity and he’s been pulled in helplessly. “Alright,” he says, when the song changes, “I’m getting us drinks before you pass out.” You fan yourself dramatically. “Fetch me something cold, Simp-son.” He rolls his eyes but grins, disappearing into the kitchen. You’re breathless. Radiant. And a little dazed as you sway toward the wall for air.

That’s when Tim finds you. He’s got one of those beach-boy smiles and a little too much cologne, but he’s funny, and you’re still buzzing with adrenaline and the glow of Jake’s hand in yours. “So you’re Jake’s neighbour, huh?” Tim smirks. “Didn’t think he had it in him.” You laugh, brushing hair from your face. “He’s full of surprises.” Tim leans in a little, playfully. “And what about you? You always light up the room like that?” You raise a brow. “That a line?” “Only if it worked.” You’re giggling, cheeks pink, when you suddenly feel it, that slight shift in atmosphere. The subtle static that tells you someone’s watching.

You turn. And see him. Jake, standing across the room. Red cup in hand. Leaning against the wall. Jaw set. Eyes fixed on you. He doesn’t say anything. Just sips, slow and measured, mouth twitching at the edges like he’s trying not to scowl. Your stomach flips. Zoey’s words echo in your head like a prophecy: "If you don't make out with this hot nerd by the end of the day, I will." Tim says something else, but you don’t hear it.

Because all you can feel is Jake’s stare, heavy, unreadable, his knuckles white around the plastic cup. Oh. He’s jealous. Oh shit, he’s jealous. And for some reason, the knowledge sends a thrill down your spine. You don’t even register the song changing anymore. It’s all blood rushing in your ears, heartbeat pulsing like a strobe light in your chest. Because Jake’s still standing across the room, red cup dangling from his fingers, back against the wall, watching you. Like he’s seriously watching you. And not in the dreamy, lovelorn, "I think I might like her" way. No. In the simmering, oh really? way.

His brows are slightly raised. Head tilted, just a bit. Lips pressed together like he's biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from, what? Laughing? Marching over? Yanking you away? Whatever it is, it’s driving you crazy. Tim, the guy you've been casually chatting with, is still beside you, completely oblivious to the slow-building thunderstorm across the room. He leans in again with a grin, probably about to say something else flirty, when you catch Jake shift out of the corner of your eye. The way he pushes off the wall is casual. Too casual.

But the way he keeps his gaze locked on yours, unblinking? Yeah. That’s not casual at all. And something about that makes your breath hitch. Your spine straighten. You are in so much trouble. “You okay?” Tim asks, blinking at you. You blink back, startled. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. I’m, totally. Great.” (You are, in fact, combusting inside.) Because Jake is walking through the crowd now. His curls are slightly messy, a sheen of sweat clinging to his forehead, the collar of his shirt slightly undone. And he’s not smiling.

Oh, he is not smiling. Your fingers are tingling. Your brain is screaming. Your legs feel like they’ve turned to jelly. You glance at Zoey, who’s across the room taking selfies with someone’s dog, and you will her to look your way, because this is happening. This is actually happening. Jake walks straight up to you and Tim. Doesn’t even glance at Tim. Doesn’t say a word.

Just holds your gaze and says, deadpan: “You done?” You blink. “...Excuse me?” “I mean, I’m just wondering. You’ve been talking to Mr. Muscle Tee for like, twenty minutes. Is this a... thing?” The air shifts. Tim awkwardly chuckles. “Uh, I should, um, yeah. Gonna grab a refill.” He scurries away. And you’re left standing in the middle of a house party, blinking at the guy who’s never once acted like this before. Jake, who usually shies away from attention. Jake, who lets you tease him endlessly and only ever rolls his eyes. Jake, who blushes when you bump his knee under the desk. Is now staring at you like he’s seconds away from dragging you into the hallway just to make a point.

You narrow your eyes. “What is your problem?” He shrugs, nonchalant. “No problem. Just wondering when you were gonna stop flirting with Tim and remember you came here with me.” Your jaw drops. “Flirting?! I was being nice!” “You were giggling.” “I giggle all the time!” “Not with me.” Your mouth opens. Then closes. And when he sees that you don’t have a comeback, a crooked, smug little smile curls at his lips. You groan, crossing your arms. “You’re being ridiculous.” “And you’re being jealous,” he replies, stepping just a little closer. “Or at least you were, earlier. Y’know… when I smiled at Lana.” You narrow your eyes. “That was different.” “Oh? How?”

“Because, because she knew what she was doing!” “And Tim didn’t?” You look away, scowling. He lowers his voice then. “I saw your face, y’know.” You glare up at him. “What face?” “That ‘I swear to God I’ll kill any girl who looks at him twice’ face.” Your ears are burning. “You’re delusional.” “Sure,” he grins, leaning a little closer. “But I’m your delusional.” Your heart skips. You freeze. He watches you squirm for a second, then adds, like a complete menace, “I kinda liked it, though.”

“Liked what?” “That little pout. The way you got all weird. I think you even growled at Zoey.” You gasp. “I did not growl—” “You totally growled,” he teases. “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” “I do.” “You like me.” “Shut up.” “I like you too.”

You forget how to breathe. Because he says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. Like you hadn’t spent months losing sleep over this boy. Like this wasn’t a scene straight out of your hopeless little spiral-fantasy. And then, he reaches down. Takes your hand. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get out of here.” You nod, still in a daze.

But before you do, you glance over your shoulder, spot Zoey across the room, and mouth: “YOU WERE RIGHT.” To which she screams, fist-pumping into the air. You don’t even know how you got outside. One second you were standing in the middle of a hazy, neon-lit living room. The next, you were being tugged gently by the wrist, led out onto the patio, into the garden, where it’s quieter, softer, cooler. Your chest still thuds like it’s trying to escape your ribcage.

Jake doesn’t say a word. He just walks until you’re both standing under the string lights someone hung over the lawn, wind brushing through the trees, the thrum of the bass inside still vibrating faintly beneath your feet. And then, he turns.

You’re alone. His eyes flicker down to your lips. Once. Then again. And you swear, you swear, the earth tilts a little.

His fingers twitch at his side. Yours are trembling. You blink up at him, heart pounding like a war drum in your throat, and whisper, breathless: “You gonna kiss me or just stare?” Jake’s lips twitch at the corner. A lazy grin tugs at his mouth, but it’s softer now. Sweeter. And then, finally, finally, he leans in. Closer. And closer. And your eyes flutter shut. The air stills. You can feel it, the heat radiating from his skin, his breath ghosting your upper lip, your hands practically vibrating at your sides. He’s just there, one breath away, and you feel your entire body lean into that space. Like gravity itself is pulling you into him.

He exhales, low, slow, and hot across your mouth. It sends a jolt straight down your spine. Your knees go wobbly. And just as his lips are about to touch yours, “ALRIGHT EVERYONE!! SPIN THE BOTTLE IN THE LIVING ROOM!! GET YOUR CUTE ASSES BACK INSIDE!!”

The music screeches to a stop. And you flinch, blinking in disbelief. Jake groans, groans, and lets his forehead thunk lightly against yours, eyes squeezed shut like he’s physically in pain. You’re both frozen, chests rising and falling, still caught in the electric almost of the moment. His breath still tickles your lips. You can taste how close it was. You try to speak, but your voice cracks. “Did he just—?” Jake sighs again. Directly onto your mouth. Again. It hits you like a punch to the gut. “God,” you whisper, stunned, “you breathe like that again and I’m gonna explode.”

He lets out the softest laugh, warm and low and barely there. Pulls back a little, just a little. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs. You scowl. “I’m not mad.” “You’re fuming.” “I’m heartbroken. We were so close.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes lingering on your lips, voice rough, “tell me about it.” You both stand there for another second. Caught. Wrecked. Shaking. And then, like the chaotic, reckless teenagers you are, you both break into sheepish grins at the same time, like, of course it was too good to be true. Jake’s the one who finally pulls away, only to take your hand again.

“Come on,” he says, tugging you gently toward the door. You blink. “What, we’re actually going back in?” “Duh,” he smirks. “If I’m gonna kiss you for the first time, it’s not gonna be during some dumb party game.” You gape. “Jake Sim. Are you telling me you respect me?” “I’m telling you I want it to count.” And with that, he drags you back inside, right into the eye of the teenage storm, still holding your hand. The bottle spins. You sit opposite Jake, cross-legged on the sticky carpet, heart racing like it’s running a marathon without telling your brain. Neon lights blink above you. Someone’s playlist is thumping through Bluetooth speakers. The bottle twirls so fast it blurs, laughter echoing around the room, but none of it registers because, it’s just you and him now. Jake, with his flushed cheeks and messed-up hair. His glasses are a little askew. His lips still curled in that smug, slightly lopsided smile from earlier. He’s leaning back on his hands, legs stretched out, head tilted, and looking right at you. You try to act cool. Normal. Human. But your face is on fire. The bottle slows. Slows.

Creaks once, and stops. Directly between you and him. Dead silence. Someone cackles. Another person screams. “NO FREAKING WAY.” You swallow thickly, eyes flicking to Zoey, whose mouth is already wide open in gleeful betrayal. “Oh. My. God,” she squeals, clutching your arm. “OH MY GODDDD.” Jake looks at the bottle.

Then at you. And then just, smiles. So slow. So smug. The guy hosting the party practically jumps up. “Looks like it’s you two, nerd Barbie and science boy. Seven minutes. You know the rules. Closet. Now.” Someone bangs a fist on the ground. Another yells, “Make it spicy!” You open your mouth to protest, to laugh, to scream, but Jake’s already on his feet, offering you a hand. “You coming?” he asks, voice low, rough with amusement. Your brain short-circuits.

“I—I mean, yeah. Fine. Cool. It’s whatever. It’s chill.” (It’s not chill. Not even a little.) You take his hand. Let him pull you up. And then you're both walking toward the tiny hallway closet that has seen more high school sins than a confessional booth. Zoey howls in the background, “YOU BETTER COME OUT WITH HIS LIP BALM ON YOUR FACE!” You turn to glare, scandalized.

Jake just laughs under his breath, eyes dancing. The door creaks open. You step in first. The closet is warm, dark, barely big enough for two. You smell fabric softener and cedarwood and something faintly like Jake’s cologne. The closet door clicks shut behind you.

You’re not sure who closes it. Jake? Someone else? The second it snaps shut, the noise from the party cuts off like a wire’s been snipped, and you’re swallowed by warm dark, the smell of detergent and someone’s shampoo clinging to the hanging coats like a memory. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud. You breathe out. Jake is standing inches from you. You can hear him more than see him, his breathing, the faint creak of the floorboard beneath his shoe as he shifts his weight, the quiet sound of his laugh as he says, voice low:

“Closet date. Dream come true.” “Seven minutes.” “Yup.” You don’t know what makes you do it, but you bump his knee lightly with yours. He taps yours back. It becomes a game. Tap. Bump. Tap. Until suddenly his hand finds yours, and your breath catches like a spark in dry wood. “You nervous?” he murmurs. You scoff. “You wish.” He’s quiet for a moment. And then, softly: “Your heart’s racing.” “I just drank like, three Red Bulls.” “You had Sprite.” “…shut up.” You feel his smile. Sense it. And then, he leans in.

Still not touching. But so close now. You can hear every breath. Count each one. Feel the heat between you growing, pulsing, blooming. You scoff softly, “I’m gonna choke.” “Please don’t. That would really ruin the mood.” You huff a half-laugh. “Can’t believe this is happening.” “You can’t believe this is happening?” he echoes. “You just dragged me to the dance floor like I was your prom date.” “You were laughing.” “You were dancing like someone’s wine aunt.” You reach out blindly and smack his arm. He grabs your hand mid-air, gentle, palm warm, thumb sweeping over your knuckles. Your whole body stills.

You can’t see his face. But you feel him. His breath, his smile, the tension zipping between you like static. “I think I’m a little drunk,” you whisper. “I think I’m a little into you.” You stop breathing. Jake shifts closer. One step. Then another. His fingers trail down your wrist. “I was gonna kiss you earlier, before the whole bottle thing,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower. “When you were dancing to that song.” “Yeah?” Your voice is smaller now. “Why didn’t you?” He shrugs. “Was waiting for this exact cliché.”

You snort, and then the laughter dies halfway out your mouth because he leans in and kisses you. Just like that. No warning. No teasing. Just heat. And it’s not soft this time. It’s not sweet and tentative. It’s messy. Loud. He kisses like he’s been holding it in for weeks, hands coming up to cup your face, fingers pushing into your hair, lips sliding over yours like he means it. Your back thuds against the wall again. You gasp into him, and he takes the opening, mouth hungry, tongue sliding, the kind of kiss that curls your toes and makes your knees buckle.

You fist his shirt. He groans softly, like you’re making him lose his mind. The closet is hot. Too hot. You’re both breathing hard already. Your head is spinning. “Jake,” you breathe between kisses, “we’re literally, this is so dumb, we’re—” He kisses you again. Deeper. Slower. You melt. “You were jealous earlier,” he says, voice cocky. You pull back just far enough to glare. “I was not.” “You wanted to kill Lana.” You cross your arms. “I still might.”

Jake laughs against your cheek, presses open-mouthed kisses down your jawline, and then right under your ear where you literally whimper. “That’s cute,” he whispers. You make a strangled noise. “You’re annoying.” “You’re obsessed.” “Shut up.” He doesn’t. He kisses you until you forget your name.

Your hands find his hair. It’s messy, soft, smells like coconut shampoo and too many library books. He leans into your touch like he’s starved for it. His teeth graze your bottom lip and your whole body short-circuits. You giggle. Drunk on him. On this. On neon party air and high school hormones and the fact that Jake Sim is currently pinning you to a closet wall like a fever dream.

“God, you’re such a nerd,” you whisper, brushing his curls back. He grins, forehead to yours. “You like that, though.” You kiss him again. It’s lazy now. Familiar. Like maybe you’ve been doing this forever. Like maybe your lips are meant to be here. In this closet. With him.

Just as the tension starts to soften, just as you start thinking maybe you’ll never leave this closet, the door flies open. Light floods in. “SEVEN MINUTES ARE UP, LOSERS—OH MY GOD.” You and Jake jump apart like guilty kids. But you’re breathless. Lip-gloss smudged. His curls are sticking up in every direction, shirt rucked, mouth pink and swollen. You blink at Zoey. She gapes at you both. Then screams. Jake just shrugs and grins, reaching back to take your hand as he mutters, “Totally worth it.”

The walk home feels like a dream dipped in moonlight. Your heels dangle from your fingers, your other hand locked with Jake’s, and your heart is still racing, not from the party, not from the dancing, not even from the closet, but from this: the electric quiet between you, the way he’s looking at you like you’re his whole night sky.

You both try to act casual, but you’re glowing. Literally glowing. Your cheeks are warm, your lips a little puffy from how many kisses he snuck under the disco ball, in that damn hallway, on the walk, hell, even behind a bush at one point, because he’d looked at you like that and you simply had no self-control. The streets are empty except for the occasional porch light, the buzz of insects in the hedges, the faint thump of music still bleeding from the party house a few blocks down. Jake keeps tugging you closer, swinging your hands between you like he’s never held someone’s hand before. Like he doesn’t want to let go. He's a little tipsy, a little winded from kissing you like that in the closet, and he keeps bumping into you on purpose just to hear you giggle.

You’re both grinning so wide your cheeks hurt, and he keeps turning to you, pressing quick, warm kisses to your lips, once at the traffic light, once under the big eucalyptus tree. “You know,” he says, a little breathless, “I had a plan.”

You glance up at him, eyes half-lidded. “A plan?” “Yeah.” He chuckles. “To take it slow. Be a gentleman. Ask you out, give you flowers, be shy about touching you...” “And what happened to that plan?” you tease. He looks down at you, his eyes soft, slightly glassy from the tipsy buzz. “You happened.” You punch his arm, but you’re grinning too wide to be mad. And when you finally reach your porch steps, something shifts. The giddy, dizzy energy melts into something quieter. Tender. The air crackles with it. Jake takes a step closer, still holding your hand, the porch light casting a golden halo around you.

“I don’t really wanna leave,” he says, voice lower now, more vulnerable. You smile up at him. “So don’t.” So he doesn’t. You lean back against your door, and he steps between your legs. Your knees knock. His hands find your waist like they’ve always belonged there. He kisses you, slowly this time, none of the party heat, just soft, slow-motion, kiss-you-’til-the-stars-get-jealous type of shit. His hands rest on your hips, and your fingers loop around his collar as you melt into him. You're still kissing him when, the porch light flicks off. Then on. Then off again.

“HELLOOOO?” Your mom’s voice echoes like a megaphone. “CAN YOU STOP PLAYING TONGUE-TWISTER WITH MY DAUGHTER FOR TWO SECONDS?” You practically squeal, hiding your face in his hoodie as Jake doubles over, laughing. He glances up toward the window with zero shame. “Nice to meet you, ma’am!” he calls, voice still breathless.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she shouts back. “Hope you like in-laws. I already picked out names for the grandkids.” “MOM,” you groan, dragging Jake toward the steps to escape the utter humiliation. “Ignore her, she’s insane.” Jake’s still laughing, his face flushed. “You’re literally the most fun person I’ve ever met.” “You’ve clearly never met Zoey.” “You’re right,” he says. “She might be the maid of honor.”

You gape. “Are you already planning our wedding?” He grins. “Not yet. But I wouldn’t hate the idea.” And then he kisses you one last time, right on the nose. “Sleep tight, pretty girl.” You’re still standing there, barefoot on your porch, watching him walk backward down the street with his hands in his hoodie pocket and the dopiest smile on his face. You don’t even realize your mom is still watching until she calls out:

“I LIKE HIM! KEEP HIM! DON'T SCREW THIS ONE UP!” You roll your eyes and shove the door open, heart thundering in your ears. You're gonna marry this boy someday. Probably. Maybe. Eventually. But for now? He’s yours. And that's enough. And that night? You sleep with your fingers still curled like you were holding his hand. You wake up late. And by late, you mean you spend fifteen extra minutes staring at the ceiling, replaying every single kiss from Saturday night like a teenage girl possessed.

Because you are a teenage girl possessed. By hormones. And the very real memory of Jake Sim’s hand sliding down your back while you whispered nonsense between giggles in a dark hallway. You throw on your uniform like it’s war armor, tie your hair up messily, try to look not like you just fell in love at a house party, and sprint to school. But there’s no hiding it. You’re glowing. Positively radiating. You walk through those school gates and the sun shines brighter. The birds chirp louder. That one annoying Year 7 kid actually smiles at you.

And the moment you reach the hallway, “OH MY GOD,” Zoey shrieks, practically sprinting at you. “YOU KISSED HIM. YOU ACTUALLY KISSED HIM.” You don’t even try to deny it. You just nod, stupid. Giddy. Floating. “Did we kiss?” you mumble, shoving your bag into your locker with the softest grin on your face. “I don’t remember. Everything was spinning.”

“Don’t play coy with me, Juliet!” Zoey clutches her chest dramatically. “The grapevine is rampant. Tim told Riley who told Jamie who told Dylan, DYLAN, babe, who told Aiden, that Jake Sim took you home last night.” “He walked me home,” you stress. “Walked. And my mom watched the whole thing like she was filming a Hallmark commercial.”

Zoey gasps. “The porch kiss?” You nod, laughing. “It was… ugh.” “Ugh in a bad way?” “No,” you whisper, eyes wide. “Ugh in a I’ll-never-be-normal-again way.” Before she can combust entirely, he walks in. Jake Sim. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Hoodie tucked under his blazer. That same quiet, boyish smirk he always has, except now it's laced with something else.

Something like: I kissed you and I liked it and I might do it again. Your heart skips. Does a double take. Full on cartwheels. He catches your eye from across the hallway, raises one brow, and winks. Zoey punches your arm. “I think I blacked out,” you whisper. “You’re literally glowing like a firefly.” “Am not.” “Am so. Look, he’s coming, HE’S COMING.”

Jake strolls up, somehow making sweaters look hot (which should be illegal), and he’s grinning at you with that smug post-spin-the-bottle confidence. “Hey,” he says, voice low and honey-sweet. “Hi,” you mumble, way too breathy. “Sleep okay?” he asks, like this is normal. Like you didn’t spend half the night kissing on a porch while your mom cackled inside. You nod. “Kinda. You?”

He smirks. “I had a dream. You were in it.” Zoey’s already shrieking internally. You’re about to combust. “Okay, okay,” she interjects, slipping her arm between you two like a defensive bestie bodyguard. “As magical as this morning Disney moment is, someone’s gotta tell Ms. Patterson that lovebirds aren’t a valid excuse for missing homeroom.” Jake’s still grinning as he heads off down the hall. Before he turns the corner, he tosses one last line over his shoulder, “See you in math, dream girl.”

And you just stand there. Mouth parted. Heart in orbit. Brain somewhere in the clouds. Zoey fans you with her folder. “You’re toast.” You nod dumbly. “Like… burnt.”

6th period rolls around. You’re trying to care about derivatives. You’re really trying. But Jake Sim’s hand is resting over yours under the desk and your brain? Absolutely fried.

You're not even sure how it happened. One second, you're solving a problem, and by solving you mean staring blankly at your notebook, waiting for divine intervention, and the next, his fingers are just there. Curling over your knuckles like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s still scribbling equations with his other hand, calm and steady and infuriatingly perfect, while your heart is doing the full Olympic gymnastics routine.

And the worst part? No one’s saying anything. Everyone’s watching. Like, half the class has stopped solving limits altogether. They’re just leaning back, mouths parted, watching this like it’s Peak Cinema. You catch Zoey staring with the world’s biggest shit-eating grin. She mouths, "HAND-HOLDING????” like it’s some forbidden act of sin, clutching her chest dramatically when you nod. You: (mouthing back) “I’m gonna pass out.” Zoey: “Die pretty, babe.” Meanwhile Jake?

Jake is still doing math. Jake is solving derivatives like he didn’t tongue you breathless two nights ago in a broom closet. Jake is pressing soft little circles into your wrist with his thumb and then pretending he has no idea he’s turning your body into literal Jell-O. You tap your pen anxiously, your usual habit, and he just casually presses down on your thigh to still it again. Hand flat on your leg. His palm is warm. Familiar. Too familiar. You shoot him a look. He finally meets your eyes and just smiles. All calm and smug like: “Yeah. I know what I’m doing to you.”

You inhale sharply. He leans in just a little. “Need help?” he asks quietly. “With math?” He raises a brow. “With breathing.” You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “You’re not that charming.” Jake shrugs. “You let me hold your hand like we’re in a rom-com montage.” “Slip of judgment.” “You kissed me for like half an hour in a cleaning closet.” You look away, burning. “We were drunk.” “You said I gave you butterflies.” Your head snaps to him. “Zoey told you that?!” He grins, triumphant. “Loudly. In the hallway. I was two lockers away.”

You groan, hiding your face in your elbow. “I can’t come back from this.” Jake gently nudges your arm away. “I like butterflies.” And before you can even process that little emotional snipe to the heart, the bell rings. Everyone scrambles up, but neither of you move. Not really. You just… stay there. Staring. Soft smiles on both your lips.

Jake squeezes your hand one last time before standing, pulling you up with him like it’s instinct. Like he can’t not. As he leans down to grab his bag, he whispers close to your ear: “You’re not the only one with butterflies, you know.”

It’s the kind of afternoon that tastes like the end of a coming-of-age movie. The sun is spilling gold everywhere, on the sidewalks, on your skin, on the crown of Jake’s hair as it glows soft brown instead of black in the light. The air is sticky-sweet and warm, cicadas humming in the trees, someone blasting music from an open car window down the street. You’re both walking in slow, meandering loops toward the corner ice cream stand tucked between the pharmacy and the train station. Your schoolbags swing gently against your backs. His pinkie brushes yours every few steps. Neither of you mention it.

You end up in front of the chalkboard menu. You’re already grinning, toeing the curb with your scuffed shoe. “Vanilla,” you say without hesitation. Jake turns to you, squinting under the sunlight. His nose crinkles. “You’d really pick vanilla? Out of everything?” “It’s elite,” you defend. “Like, it goes with everything. It’s not trying too hard. It’s... loyal.” He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Did you just call vanilla loyal?”

“Yeah.” You cross your arms. “It’s the golden retriever of flavors.” “That’s not how that works.” “Then how come I’ve never caught you ordering anything but chocolate chip cookie dough?” He freezes, startled. “...You’ve been paying attention?” You blink. “Duh.” Jake just stares at you for a second. Then he smiles, real slow, real soft. The kind that feels like a secret.

Ten minutes later, you’re both sitting on the bench under the jacaranda tree near the playground. Purple petals litter the concrete like confetti. You’re in your uniform, skirt tucked under your thighs, collar still a little sweaty from the day. He’s got one leg propped up on the bench and is spooning his ice cream like he’s reading a manual. You’re licking your cone fast so it doesn’t melt all over your hand. But some of it drips anyway, down your wrist in slow, lazy trails. Jake glances over, and his smile tilts. “You’re making a mess.” “You’re not the boss of me.” “No,” he agrees. “But I am the guy watching you struggle with a cone like it’s rocket science.” You scowl, tongue sticking out. “I’m savoring.”

“You’re sticky.” “Says the guy who can’t eat ice cream without using a spoon.” “It’s called precision,” he mutters, but you’re already laughing, nudging his knee with yours. The bench creaks softly beneath you.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of wind in the trees, your quiet giggles, the soft thud of a basketball in the distance. He leans back, arms draped along the bench behind you, and you swear his pinkie touches your shoulder for just a second.

You look over. He’s watching you again. “What?” Jake tilts his head. “You’ve got ice cream…” “Where—?” “Right—” he leans in, not touching, just hovering, thumb poised beside your lip. “—there.” His hand moves gently, wiping the melted streak with a featherlight touch. Your breath stutters. He licks the smudge off his thumb like it’s the most casual thing in the world and then raises an eyebrow. “You really like vanilla, huh?” You blink, dazed. “What?” “You’re red.” “I am not—” “Blushing.” “Shut up.”

He’s grinning. So smug. So pretty. So boyish in that just-out-of-uniform, sleeves-rolled-up, sun-on-his-neck kind of way. You could punch him. You could kiss him. You end up doing neither, because he’s already moving closer. Just a fraction. Just enough for the air between you to spark. “You’re cute when you’re mad,” he murmurs. You open your mouth to protest, but then he kisses you. Just like that. No warning. No build-up. Just a soft, slow press of lips that tastes like sugar and laughter and the ridiculous ache of wanting someone this much.

He kisses you like he’s still figuring it out. Like he’s tasting the flavor of you. One hand cupping your cheek gently, thumb brushing near your jaw. His lips are warm, a little messy, and when he pulls back just an inch, still close enough to breathe you in, he smiles. “Still think vanilla’s the best?” You can’t even answer.

Your brain’s static. Your heart’s in your throat. You’re leaning back in, chasing the warmth of his mouth like it’s a secret you need to learn by heart. The second kiss is a little more sure. A little giddier. His thumb strokes your cheek. Your hand finds the collar of his shirt. He hums against your lips. When you finally part, he’s looking at you like the world might end tomorrow, but at least today, he got to kiss you in it.

You walk home hand in hand, fingers laced. There’s a bounce in your step you can’t hide, not even when you try. Jake swings your joined hands playfully, bumping your shoulder now and then, and every time you make eye contact, you just smile. Like you’re in on a joke only the two of you understand.

By the time you reach your front porch, the sun’s dipped lower, and the street’s gone all hazy and warm. Jake stops. You turn to him. “I had fun,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “Me too.” He squeezes your hand. “You gonna text me later?” “Maybe.” “Cool.” He grins. “I’ll still text you first.”

You giggle, and he kisses you again, quick and eager, a little shy, like he has to before he goes. Your mom watches from the window and immediately makes a show of fake-sniffling and waving her tea mug like a bouquet.

“Should I start planning the wedding?” she yells through the glass. “Mooom—!” Jake just laughs, cheeks pink. You groan, cover your face, and he leans in close again, murmuring, “I mean... if you’re free next summer?”

“Jake!” “Okay, okay,” he grins, backing away. “See you tomorrow, pretty.” And with that, he jogs off into the golden blur of the evening. You’re still grinning when you shut the door behind you. Still floating. Still high on the ridiculous, perfect sweetness of it all. The sky fades pink behind you. The world tilts slow. You’re too busy falling in love.

THE END.

Masterlist

A/n: Phew! That was a roller coaster. I had the most fun writing this because it’s based on a personal story. Gosh, HD, my first crush, if you’re out there… I remember you. I hope you’re well. Gremmy and Ferb, yes, I do remember your relentless teasing, you're the Zoey of this story <3 If you’ve ever fallen for someone during those stupid hazy school days, you know the kind, this one’s for you. Tag your Zoey. Text your Jake. Or maybe just smile at the memory. My Zoey or Jake aren't on Tumblr, but the memory is with me, and I am. So I hope to pass it on. Either way, thanks for reading <3

⟡ @tashmonellloveskpopboybands,⟡ @yuriloveshee, ⟡ @kookiesnkim, ⟡ @picklemafia, ⟡ @add-this-to-that, ⟡ @xxjoyridingxx,⟡ @enjakey, ⟡ @noidnoentry, ⟡ @avadie, ⟡ @enhaheart8, ⟡ @yourislandgirl, ⟡ @meowwwon, ⟡ @saodk ⟡ @inlovewithparkjisung, ⟡ @verycutesyverymindful, ⟡ @fleurdelises, ⟡ @tyongielee, ⟡ @amzingjellyfish, ⟡ @enbplvr, ⟡ @6abriellaa, ⟡ @fateismoonstruck, ⟡ @artemesiareads, ⟡ @d0einheadlights, ⟡ @miuuuw, ⟡ @butwhyareyoureyessosad, ⟡ @rainofcrime, ⟡ @darkblueblueberr, ⟡ @zone444girls, ⟡ @bombombakudanmeow, ⟡ @en-cityy, ⟡ @koya2000, ⟡ @tttbearblog, ⟡ @yb763, ⟡ @freakseung2001 ⟡ @nics-fxy, ⟡ @irers, ⟡ @seungsoftly, ⟡ @iyaiyaohhh, ⟡ @xnatqq,

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