After school, the hallways are still humming with leftover noise, so slipping under the bleachers feels like stepping into another world. Dusty light filters through the gaps, and Michael drops beside you with a quiet laugh, shaking his head about something that happened in class. His shoulder brushes yours every time he shifts, close enough to feel the warmth.

The two of you trade quiet jokes, trying not to let your laughter echo. Michael keeps glancing toward the open field like someone might catch you, but every time he looks back, his smile gets softer.

Then your friend’s voice cuts through the air, calling your name from above the bleachers. Both of you go still. Michael’s breath hitches, and he turns toward you, eyes wide for a moment—then steady.

He leans in before you can move, his hand brushing the ground beside yours as he presses a quick, nervous kiss against your lips. The sound of your friend calling fades for a second, like the world forgot to keep going.

Michael pulls back just enough to look at you, cheeks warm and eyes unsure, waiting for whatever comes next.