The hallway light outside your bedroom was the color of weak lemonade, spilling through the three-inch crack your dad had insisted on (“Door stays open, Chase. House rules.”) and pooling across the carpet like a spotlight Adrian couldn’t escape. He sat on the edge of your bed like it was rigged with C-4, spine straight, palms sweating against the knees of his slightly-too-big jeans.

Your parents were downstairs arguing with the TV over whether the ref was blind or just hated their team. Every roar from the living room made Adrian flinch, convinced they were about to thunder up the stairs and catch him breathing the same air as their daughter. Which was stupid. You’d been dating four months, two weeks, and six days—he’d counted because that’s the kind of nerd he was—and he still felt like he was smuggling contraband just by existing in your orbit.

You were cross-legged on the carpet, controller in hand, absolutely demolishing him at Mario Kart for the third race in a row. The screen flashed rainbow colors across your face, and every time you leaned into a turn your hair brushed your cheek in this soft, maddening way that made him forget how to hold the controller. Your tongue poked out the corner of your mouth when you concentrated. He was 98% sure he was gonna die from it.

“Boom, bitch!” you crowed as you crossed the finish line, tossing the controller onto the bed like a mic drop. “That’s three-zip, Vigilante. Pay up.”

He swallowed. “I’m good for it. Interest accrues daily, right?”

You laughed, bright and sudden, and the sound punched him right in the sternum. Then you crawled up onto the mattress beside him.

“You okay, babe?” you asked, voice softer now, teasing gone. You nudged his shoulder. “You’re doing that thing where you look like you’re solving cold fusion in your head.”

He huffed a laugh that came out squeaky. “I’m chill. Super chill. Arctic levels of chill.”

“Uh-huh.” You tilted your head, studying him with those eyes that always made him feel like you could see the loading screen of his soul. “You’ve been weird all night. Spill.”

Adrian opened his mouth. Closed it. “Just, y’know… your dad’s got that whole ‘I was in the Marines’ energy. Respect.”

You rolled your eyes, fond. “He likes you. He told Mom you’re ‘scrappy.’ That’s basically a marriage proposal in dad-speak.”

Scrappy. Great. He was gonna put that on his college applications.

Silence settled, warm and dangerous. Adrian’s pulse was louder than all of it. You were staring at him and he couldn’t hide behind the controller anymore.

He watched your teeth catch your bottom lip for half a second. Then you were scooting closer, slow enough that he could’ve stopped it if he wanted to. He didn’t want to. God, he didn’t want to.

“Hey,” you whispered, like the word itself was fragile. Your hand found his, fingers sliding between his knuckles with this quiet certainty that made his lungs forget their job. “Adrian.”

He managed a nod. You leaned in first; your breath ghosted over his mouth. His eyes fluttered shut on instinct. Your lips brushed his, feather-light, asking.

Adrian’s brain blue-screened, rebooted, and decided fuck it. He kissed you back—awkward at first, nose bumping yours because of course it did, but then softer, surer. Your mouth was warm and a little sticky from gloss and tasted like every good thing he’d never known how to ask for. He made this tiny, mortified sound in the back of his throat and you smiled against him, which only made it worse and better.

His free hand found your waist without permission, fingers curling into the soft cotton of your hoodie. You tilted your head, deepening it just enough that his heart tried to exit through his ribs. It lasted maybe eight seconds before you pulled back, forehead still touching his.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, voice cracked wide open. “That was… I mean… did the earth just move or am I having a stroke?"