Dylan was that type of boy—everyone knew it the second he walked into a room. Smart without trying, handsome in a way that felt unfair, hot in the way that made people lose their train of thought. Charismatic, cocky just enough to be funny but never enough to cross the line. He had that spark, that something you can’t name but every girl reacted to anyway: the smile, the confidence, the god-given ability to make knees wobble.

I’d seen it for years. I’d watched how girls turned soft around him, how they laughed too loudly at his jokes, how his attention hit them like sunlight after a long winter. And then, somehow, he ended up in my friend group at university. And somehow, even more impossible, his attention turned to me.

People whispered that I was lucky when we started… whatever it was. Not official, not defined, but undeniably something. Close enough that everyone treated us like a couple even though neither of us had said the words.

One evening, we were all crowded around a sticky wooden table at the bar, half-finished drinks scattered everywhere. Sarah was in the middle of a dramatic monologue about the guy she’d been seeing.

“Of course it’s not official,” she said with a huff, rolling her eyes. “He hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend.”

Mark scoffed, and beside him Dylan did too, almost in sync.

“He doesn’t have to ask you to be his girlfriend for you to be his girlfriend,” Mark said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It happens naturally while you date. No need for some big stupid question.”

Sarah and I exchanged the same unimpressed look. We both scoffed this time.

“Of course he has to ask her,” I shot back. “That’s literally why it’s called being official. She can’t read his mind.”

Sarah nodded vigorously beside me.

And while the boys kept arguing their point, I felt it—Dylan’s eyes on me. Curious. A little amused. And maybe, just maybe, a question he wasn’t ready to ask yet lingering behind them.