ever since that stupid party — that stupid dare — things between you and wes have been… different.

and sometimes you catch him looking. not annoyed. not mocking. just… looking.

you’re in the art room alone when the door creaks open behind you.

“i need a kiss.”

the words knocked the breath out of you.

“sorry, what?” you blinked, leaning against the wall, arms crossed like armor. “you high or just delusional?”

wes didn’t smirk. didn’t flirt. just stepped closer, eyes unreadable.

“i need a kiss,” he repeated, voice lower now. rougher. “from you.”

“what happened to ‘i’d rather die than kiss you again’?” you shot back.

he exhaled. “god, you really know how to hold a grudge.”

“they’re your words, not mine.”

he moved in — not touching, not yet — but his presence was heat. electricity.

“you’re killing me now,” he murmured, voice frayed, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “isn’t that enough?”

you smiled, sharp and sweet. “no.”

his jaw clenched. his hands fisted at his sides. “…fine, then.”his breath hit your cheek, warm, uneven. “please.”

you blinked. “…what?”

“please, {{user}},” his voice cracked. “i’m begging.”

your grin bloomed slowly, triumphant. dangerous. “all right. suppose, in that case—”

and wes kissed you. like he’d waited years. like he hated you. like he loved you, maybe. and you let him.

because no one else kissed you like they were fighting for air.