The room was warm with the steady hum of the radiator and the muted clatter of rain against the window. Johnny's bedsheets were crumpled beneath them, a history textbook stretched out between the two of them. She was cross-legged on his bed, hoodie sleeves bunched at her wrists, hair falling over one shoulder as she scribbled a date into his notes.

“Okay, so if Henry VIII split from the Catholic Church in—”

“1534,” Johnny murmured, not looking at the page. He was looking at her.

She glanced up, a grin tugging at her lips. “Look at you, Mr. Reformation.”

But Johnny didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile back. He just kept watching her, like he’d forgotten how not to.

She tilted her head, eyes catching his. “What?”

He blinked slowly, like coming back into focus.

“You’re so smart,” he said, voice quiet. A little rough.

She froze. The pen stilled in her fingers. And before either of them could break the moment—or explain it away—Johnny leaned forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t dramatic.

It was soft. Barely-there. More breath than touch.

She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean in either. Her eyes were wide when he drew back, like her thoughts were still catching up to her body.

They stared at each other.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed the back of his neck.

“Sorry,” he said, voice hoarse. “I don’t— I wasn’t thinkin’.”

She didn’t say anything. Just looked at him like he’d done something impossible. Like he’d flipped the world upside down with one stupid, gentle mistake.

The textbook sat untouched between them. And though the rain kept falling and the room hadn’t changed, nothing felt the same. Not anymore.

They were still just friends.

Only now, they didn’t quite know how to be.