41

I bring two sandwiches.

I don't ask what she wants - haven't for a while now - because she always takes the one with mayo and cucumber, even though she claims she "doesn't like mayo." (She eats the whole thing. Every time.)

Today though?

Today my hands are sweating.

Because I called her my girlfriend yesterday.

In front of God, Ariana, the student body, and our AP Lit teacher's weird glass owl.

And we haven't talked about it.

At all.

She's already there when I get to our spot under the stairs. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands like she's trying to make herself smaller.

I want to say something smart.

Something smooth.

Instead, I hand her the sandwich.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey," I say back, sounding every bit like a guy whose heart just tried to escape through his kneecaps.

I sit beside her.

Close, but not too close.

(Okay, maybe too close.)

We start eating in silence.

Not the comfortable kind.

The are-we-dating-or-did-I-hallucinate-it kind.

My brain is running on three thoughts:

Did I ruin it?

Did she like it?

Her lip gloss tastes like mango, probably.

And then she says:

"So... girlfriend."

I almost choke on turkey.

My body forgets how to function.

She's looking at me like I dropped the g-word and then fled the country.

Which - fair.

"I mean," she says, eyes down, "technically. You said it."

"Right," I manage. "I did."

"So...?"

"So...?"

We both stare at each other like confused NPCs stuck in a loop.

Then she asks - soft, shy, dangerous:

"Do you want it to be real?"

Time stops.

I drop the sandwich.

"I thought it already was."

Her eyes go wide.

She makes a squeaky noise that short-circuits my heart.

She doesn't run.

She doesn't push me away.

She says:

"Okay."

Like it's a promise.

Like it's a dare.

Like it's a lifeline.

We sit there, grinning like idiots.

Blushing like middle schoolers.

"So..." I say, trying to sound normal. "We're dating?"

"I guess we are."

"Should we, like... tell people?"

"You already did," she mutters, hiding her face behind the sandwich.

I laugh. Loud. Unfiltered. Like I haven't laughed like this in years.

"Okay, okay," I say. "New question."

"Hmm?"

"Do I get to hold your hand now?"

She side-eyes me.

"You held it yesterday."

"Yeah, but that was pre-title. Now it's, like, official."

"You had the audacity, not a title."

And God help me, I fall a little more in love with her.

So I reach over.

And take her hand.

And this time?

She doesn't flinch.

We sit like that.

No pressure.

No rush.

Just two kids.

Under the stairs.

Trying to be brave.

And when her pinky curls around mine - soft and certain - I know I'd fight the whole world just to keep this moment.

--------------------------------------------------

We're supposed to be studying.

That's the plan.

Physics test on Friday, and we both agreed - well, I agreed and Luca grumbled - that we'd meet at the school library after last period.

Now we're here.

Books open.

Pens in hand.

Pages ignored.

He's sitting across from me at one of those old oak tables that creaks if you even think about moving.

There's dust dancing in the sunlight from the window beside him, and his hoodie sleeves are pushed to his elbows.

He looks tired.

And kind of beautiful.

But mostly tired.

"So..." he says, flipping his notes upside down. "Do I need to memorize Newton's Third Law or just vibe with the idea of it?"

"You can't 'vibe' with physics," I whisper.

"I disagree. Physics is just vibes in motion."

I snort so hard it earns me a shhh! from the librarian.

Luca smirks.

We return to pretending to study.

And then it happens.

Under the table - where no one can see - his foot bumps mine.

At first, I think it's an accident.

I glance up.

He's looking right at me.

So, not an accident.

Then his foot nudges mine again.

And stays there.

Warm. Quiet. Like a secret he's asking me to keep.

My skin goes warm, all over.

I drop my pencil.

Reach to pick it up - and feel his pinky brush mine beneath the table.

Not an accident either.

He keeps it there.

Not holding.

Not grabbing.

Just... touching.

Waiting.

I let my pinky curl around his.

He doesn't look up.

Neither do I.

We pretend to be focused.

But under the table, our hands are slowly figuring out what it means to belong.

My heart is too loud.

My mouth is too dry.

His thumb brushes the back of my knuckles, once.

I almost pass out.

"Sen?" he murmurs, not looking up from his notebook.

"Yeah?"

"If we pass this test, I'm going to pretend it was because of you and not the six hours I spent panicking."

"You're welcome in advance."

He grins, small and crooked.

Our fingers tangle a little tighter.

And somehow, this moment - this stupid, quiet, soft thing under a splintered table - feels more intimate than a kiss.

I could live here.

In the space between his hands and mine.

In the silence we made together.

In the comfort of just... existing beside someone who sees you and doesn't look away.