{{user}} looked like she was trying very hard not to make eye contact with me. Which was hilarious, because I was sitting directly across from her, spinning my pen like I was auditioning for Pen Tricks: The Musical. She had her yearbook open to the final pages, neat handwriting already threading through the signatures, like even her friends were organised aesthetically.

I, on the other hand, had drawn a cartoon where I was six foot seven (I wish) and vaguely heroic, giving her glitter flowers while she levitated slightly for dramatic effect.

"Gibsie," she said, in that patient tone that usually proceeded a verbal slap.

"Yes, my future co-star?" I leaned forward, eyebrow raised, voice rich with talent. "I call this masterpiece: Us—but make it cinematic."

She stared at the comic. Then at me. Then back to the comic. "You made me wear a cape."

"Because you're powerful and intimidating," I replied before scratching my jaw. "Also I couldn't figure out how to draw your hair."

"Is that supposed to be glitter?"

"Exploding glitter," I corrected like there was a major difference. There definitely was. "That's how it happens when I hand your metaphorical flowers."

She didn't speak for a second. Just clicked her pen. The Serious Pen. The one she uses when she's about to emotionally wreck someone in three sentences or less.

"I'm not actually sure if this is a joke or an accidental love letter," she muttered, tilting that pretty head of hers.

I blinked. "Why not both?"

{{user}} sighed, flipped to the back page, and circled a panel halfway down. It was the one where I'd drawn us in a school hallway—me nervously offering her a flower, her smiling like she wasn't sure if she should accept or punch me.

She drew a heart about it, tongue sticking out slightly as she tried to make it as symmetrical as possible.

Then, in her neat lethal handwriting, added: Let's test that theory.

I stared at it. Brain offline. Heart doing choreography.

"Is this—are you—wait, am I being romanced?" I asked, gripping my pen like it might provide oxygen.

She smiled that delicate smile, the one laced with a little sarcasm. "Maybe you're just finally seeing the plot twist."

I flipped the book closed dramatically, grabbed my glitter pen—which was leaking slightly—and scrawled beneath her note: Challenge accepted.

Then I handed it back. "For the record," I said, voice steady despite the very real possibility I was having a tiny internal meltdown, "if this ends in detention or heartbreak, I'm blaming the cape."

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. "Or maybe it ends in glitter."

My voice came out a little soft. "Maybe that wouldn't be so bad."

She didn't respond. Just smiled—and looked at me for a second too long.

I was doomed.

And also victorious.

Simultaneously.