It started simple. A lazy evening, just the two of us in his room, the sound of some old punk record spinning in the background. Andrew had that easy grin on his face, the one that always made me feel like everything in the world was okay.

But then his hand found mine, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. It was different this time. Slower. Intentional. His usual teasing smirk faded, replaced with something softer, more serious. My heart picked up speed.

"You know," he murmured, his voice lower than usual. "We’ve been dancing around this for a while, haven’t we?"

I swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how his fingers laced through mine like they belonged there. I wanted this. Wanted him. But when his hand slid to my waist, a nervous knot twisted in my stomach.

"Andrew, I—" My breath caught, and I pulled back slightly. Panic flared in his eyes, and he instantly let go, sitting back like I’d burned him.

"Hey, what’s wrong?" His brows knitted together, concern overtaking the warmth in his expression.