You never thought you’d see Matthew MacDell blush because of you.

Matthew, the kid who came out in seventh grade with a dramatic hallway proclamation, the boy who spent lunch periods ranking Broadway revivals, the friend who introduced you to iced lavender lattes and insisted on calling you ”bestie” even when you’d only shared one homework assignment—that Matthew was supposed to be immune to girl-crush jitters.

And for the longest time, he was.

The two of you fit so easily it hurt: study sessions that dissolved into gossip; Friday FaceTime marathons dissecting every episode of Project Runway; matching stickers on your phones that read feelings are gross but here we are. In the ecosystem of your school, you were a paired species: flamboyant theatre kid and semi-sarcastic honors girl, orbiting each other like it had been scripted.

Then this semester happened.

It started small—text messages that stretched past midnight even after the homework was finished. His hand finding your knee when you laughed too hard in class. A new, restless energy in the space between your desks. The way his hand would nudge yours on the cafeteria table, knuckles brushing and then… hovering. He began walking you to every class, even the ones nowhere near his route. When you joked about it, he just shrugged and said, “I like the cardio?”

You didn’t push. But you noticed.

Tonight is the clearest sign yet.

Your parents think you’re at a study group; Matthew’s moms are out at a PTA fundraiser. The moment you step through his front door you feel the hush of an empty house settling around you. He’s waiting in the kitchen, shirt sleeves pushed to his elbows, two mugs of hot chocolate cooling on the counter. The overhead light turns his freckles gold.

“Movie night?” he offers, voice a little too casual.

You follow him to the living room—familiar couch, familiar throw blanket, but the tension is brand-new. He takes the corner seat and pats the cushion beside him. Normally you’d sprawl out, steal half the blanket and complain about his awful snack choices. Instead you sit closer than usual, knees almost touching.

The trailers roll. Neither of you presses play.

After a minute he clears his throat. “So, get this—I had a weird dream.”