A Bit Of Stupid.

"Your shoelace's untied," she said casually, eyes fixed ahead.

He paused mid-step, almost stumbling as he looked down.

Both laces: perfectly tied.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "No, it's not."

"Just checking if you're alert," she shrugged, lips twitching.

He sighed. "You do realize we're about to enter a class where the professor believes sarcasm is a crime?"

"That's why I'm using it now. Stocking up."

They walked a few more steps before she suddenly stopped. He turned to her.

"What now?"

"My scarf," she said solemnly, "is choking me. This might be how I die."

"You're being dramatic."

"No. You just don't know the ways scarves turn on you."

He rolled his eyes but reached out and adjusted it slightly, muttering, "It's literally hanging like a sleepy bat."

She gave him a smug look. "So you do pay attention."

"Only because if you passed out from scarf-strangulation, I'd have to drag you to the medical ward and people would talk."

"About how heroic you are?"

"No. About how bad I am at CPR."

She snorted, trying to hide her laughter behind her hand.

They walked past a group of juniors who were clearly watching them—maybe not intentionally, but the energy was unmistakable. He noticed. She didn't care.

"You realize we've been together this whole day?" he said lightly.

She raised an eyebrow. "Tired of me already?"

"Mentally? Yes. Emotionally? I think I've reached a Stockholm Syndrome stage."

She laughed openly now, that half-silent giggle he was growing fond of.

"I think you like this," she said.

"What? Torture?"

"No. Me."

He looked at her. She looked away. The grin still played at the corners of her lips.

He chuckled. "You're not even denying your narcissism anymore."

"I'm not denying anything. Just stating possibilities."

They reached the stairs and began climbing up.

"I still think you're the kind of person who'd start a fight over pineapple on pizza," he teased.

"I have started that fight. Multiple times. And I will die on that hill."

He groaned. "I knew it. We can't be friends anymore."

"You say that, but you're still walking next to me."

He bumped her shoulder lightly. "Stockholm Syndrome, remember?"

She grinned again, and this time—he let it sink in.

The laugh, the banter, the strange ease between them.

It didn't mean anything big.

But it meant they were moving forward.

Even if it was just one sarcastic step at a time.