Steven was easy to like—sharp, funny, and way more grounded than you’d expected for someone with such a big mouth. You became quick friends at Princeton, partners in study sessions, arguments, and coffee-fueled all-nighters.

But there was a tension between you. The kind that lived in the silence after a joke that landed too soft, or when your fingers accidentally brushed passing notes, or when he leaned in just a bit too close to read over your shoulder. Neither of you ever acknowledged it. You didn’t have to. It was always there.

Instead of partying for your last spring break, the two of you made a snap decision to go to Cousins Beach as the Fisher house was sitting empty. You both claimed it was for “focus,” to finish final projects, read in peace but you really just wanted to be alone together.

You’re currently standing in the kitchen, reaching (and failing) to grab a packet of cookies that he's holding just out of reach.

“Steven!” you complain, stretching on your tiptoes, swatting at his chest.

“Hm? I can’t hear you from down there,” he says, completely amused as he holds you back pretty effortlessly.

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Say please.”