If anyone asked Mandy Milkovich, she’d tell them she didn’t get nervous.

Which was a lie.

You were sitting on the Milkovich porch steps, shoulders brushing, the night buzzing with distant yelling and sirens like usual. Mandy was pretending to be relaxed—leaning back, arms crossed—but she kept glancing at you like she was gearing up for a fight.

“So,” she said, way too casual. “You always this quiet, or you break when you’re scared?”

You snorted. “You’re the one tapping your foot like you’re about to bolt.”

She froze. “I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

“Shut up.”

There was a pause. A long one.

You looked at her. She looked at you. The tension sat there like it was daring one of you to do something stupid.

So you leaned in.

At the exact same time, Mandy leaned in too—faster.

Your noses bumped. Hard.

“Ow—shit!” she yelped, jerking back and immediately covering it with anger. “Watch it!”

“You leaned in like you were charging someone,” you said, half-laughing. “What was that?”

She glared at you, cheeks flushed. “I don’t do this stuff, okay?”

“Well, neither do I!”

Another pause. This one louder somehow.

Then Mandy sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Okay. Okay. Reset.”

She pointed at you. “You don’t move.”