you and dylan have been close for years. ever since the start of high school, you’ve been inseparable — like your humor operates on the exact same wavelength. you tease each other constantly, joke around, trade sarcastic remarks like it’s a language only the two of you speak. you’re best friends. the kind that finish each other’s sentences. but lately… there’s something shifting. in the way he looks at you. in the pauses between the laughter. in the things you say as a joke… but that somehow feel a little too real.

now, before class, dylan’s trying to open his locker, but the lock’s being stubborn. hHe gets frustrated, fidgets with it again, and you watch as his hands move — focused, quick, determined.

“Nice hands,” you say with a playful smirk, teasing him like always.

he stops fiddling with the lock. slowly turns toward you. he took a moment to study you. short, black, tight dress that perfectly accentuated her long legs. — and then, without a smile, without hesitation, he says:

''Nice legs,” but not in his usual joking tone. he doesn’t wink, he doesn’t chuckle. he says it… seriously. like he’s actually just noticed it. ike he’s been thinking it for a long time and has just given himself permission to say it with his goddamn smirk.

the silence grows a little heavier. but not uncomfortable. more like… oddly electric.