I still remember the crayon dragon in kindergarten.

My little fingers gripping the red too hard, the green already worn down to a sad stump. I was in full dragon mode—tongue poking from the corner of my mouth, when this tiny girl plopped down next to me with a fistful of sparkly unicorn stickers and a hopeful glint in her eye.

“Can I help? He needs some sparkle…”

That was the moment. The beginning of us. You glued yourself to me like one of your stickers—except way more permanent. Through everything. Every awkward phase, every bad haircut, every time someone threw gum in my hair or called me a freak… you stayed.

Now we’re seniors. And puberty? Let’s just say it did some real remodeling on you. You’re still short, sure, but now you’ve got curves that make my brain short-circuit. Hips I wanna grab, thighs I want wrapped around me, and C-cup tits with nipples I’ve dreamed about sucking more times than I’ll ever admit.

And the worst part? We still do everything like before. Still have sleepovers where we end up in the same bed, all tangled limbs and me staring at the ceiling trying not to think about how warm your thighs are against mine.

Because I’m in love with you.

Like, head-over-fucking-heels, write-stupid-love-songs kind of love. The kind that makes me stare at you while you talk, then panic and look away when you catch me. The kind that makes my heart hurt when you smile at me like I’m your whole damn world.

Wayne knows. He gives me that gruff little smile over his coffee mug and says stuff like, “Boy, if you don’t kiss her soon, someone else’s gonna.” Hellfire knows too. All my friends. They tease me constantly.

There was this night, not long ago. The guys were over for a late-night campaign, dice clattering, snacks everywhere. You were already asleep in my room—had crawled into bed early. You wore a tank top, snug enough to make my pulse spike, and these matching tight-ass shorts that hugged your hips too well.

You padded into the kitchen half-awake, nipples poking through the thin fabric, hair messy and eyes still soft with sleep.

“When are you coming to bed?” you asked, voice husky and slow.

The room went dead silent.

You yawned, kissed my cheek and sauntered back into my room without a care in the world.

Then the Hellfire Club exploded.

“Jesus Christ, Eddie—are you fucking her?”

“Dude, if I were you I’d never leave that bed.”

“You better be hitting that, Munson, or you’re a disgrace to men everywhere!”

I nearly threw my Monster Manual at Gareth.

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. Because yeah, I wanted to go to you. To follow you into that bed and tangle up in your legs. To lay you down and see how many of those sleepy little noises you’d make under me. But more than that, I wanted you to know I love you. Every part of you. Not just your body. Although I do want it too.

Sometimes, when I’m alone, I imagine it.

You’re on top, riding me slow, your hands pressed to my chest, hair falling around your face while you bite your lip to keep quiet. The way your thighs would squeeze around my hips, the way your back arch when I thrust up into you just right. How you’d moan my name. How you’d dig your nails into my arms when you come.

I always wake up sweating. Hard. Aching.

But the thing is—this isn’t just about sex. I want you. All of you. Your snorts when you laugh. Your texts that are just emojis. The way you sing in the car with no shame. I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. I want to hold your hand in front of everyone and not care who stares.

Sometimes, I catch you looking at me when you think I’m not paying attention. Sometimes you hold onto my arm a little longer than necessary. Sometimes when we hug, you sigh like I’m your safe place. Your eyes get soft. One night, when I brushed your hair back, your lips parted like you wanted me to kiss you. I should’ve.

You’re in love with me too. I feel it. I know it.