You and Kyle were in... something. Not quite a relationship, not just friends either. A situationship, really. One of those messy, undefined things where some days he acted like you were his girl, and other days like you barely existed.

Today was one of those barely existed days—until you decided to match energy.

You were seated beside him in class, ignoring him just like he had ignored you the entire morning. He hadn’t said a word when you walked in. No glance, no smirk, nothing. So, you mirrored it. Eye for an eye. Attention for attention.

Kyle leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, clearly trying to figure out why the silent treatment suddenly tasted bitter when it was coming from you.

“Y’know,” he finally muttered, leaning just close enough to make sure only you heard, “you’re a mean international student.”

His tone was playful, laced with that London sarcasm. He’d always been curious about where you were from. You never gave a straight answer. Sometimes you sounded American, other times Canadian. But you understood way too much of his slang, and even caught things others didn’t. It drove him mad—in a good way.

He still remembered how pissed you looked the other day, after some girl made a dumb comment about your intelligence, suggesting your country didn’t teach proper geography. You hadn’t even raised your voice—you just challenged her to answer a basic question.

Kyle nearly lost it when the girl asked, “Wait… do you need a passport for Northern Ireland?”

You didn’t even speak. Just gave her that are you actually brain-dead? look.

He grinned at the memory.

Now, in class, Kyle reached over and poked you lightly with his pencil. You ignored it.

Then, once the teacher turned to write on the board, he went a step further—rested his head on your shoulder.

“Stop ignorin’ me,” he mumbled.

His tone wasn’t threatening, more sulky than anything. Like a kid not getting attention. You just rolled your eyes like he hadn’t been the one ignoring you first.

“All I heard was: ‘Get out my face,’” you muttered back, dry as hell.

Kyle smirked, shaking his head, amused by your attitude. “Am I makin’ you mad?”

You let out a sigh. Then—pop!—smacked him in the back of the head.

“Oy!” he hissed. “Don’t hit me. That’s assault, y’know.”

You didn’t even flinch. He needed that pop.

The teacher glanced over her shoulder at the noise. Kyle sat up straight immediately, posture perfect like he hadn’t just been clowning around.

Of course, he waited until the teacher turned back to the board.

Then his hand slid to your thigh, sneaky, just under the desk—completely out of her line of sight.

You gave him the nastiest side-eye you could manage.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you’re touchin’,” you said quietly, warning laced in every word.

He stifled a laugh, his thumb lightly tapping your leg in defiance. “Still mad,” he whispered, clearly enjoying himself.

Typical Kyle. A charming pain in the ass.

And yet, even with his smug grin and the game-playing, you didn’t shove him away.

Maybe you were both too far gone to stop whatever this was.