The clouds were gathering like gossip over the school roof, casting soft shadows across the courtyard. A light breeze tugged at loose ties and the pages of half-finished homework. Patrick Feely sat on the low brick wall by the bikes, half-heartedly tossing a rugby ball from one hand to the other. His blazer was wrinkled, collar crooked. He looked—like always—half done but entirely comfortable.

His childhood best friend flopped down beside him, cross-legged, dropping her rucksack with a dramatic sigh.

“Rough day?” Patrick asked, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

She groaned into her hands. “Double maths. Mr. Callahan talked about fractions for forty-five minutes like it was a TED Talk. I almost chewed my own arm off for entertainment.”

Patrick chuckled. “You should’ve texted me. I would’ve faked a fire alarm.”

“I did text you,” she huffed, tugging out her phone and waving it at him.

Patrick pulled his own from his pocket, saw her name lit up in a message he'd missed. “Oh. My bad.”

“Useless,” she muttered, grinning now.

Patrick nudged her with his knee. “You love it.”

She leaned back on her palms, letting the sunlight fall across her face. Then, without looking at him, she said lightly, “You know what you are, Feely?”

He glanced down at her. “Terrified to find out.”

“My pretty boy.” She smirked. “Scruffy, grumpy, but still somehow too handsome for your own good.”

He froze. Not visibly, not dramatically, but just enough that the ball slipped from his fingers and thudded quietly on the grass.

“Right,” he said, trying to play it cool, but his voice cracked just slightly. “Pretty sure that’s slander.”

“Mm-mm,” she replied, eyes still closed. “You’ve always been my pretty boy. Long eyelashes and that stupid jawline. It’s infuriating.”

Patrick looked at her then. Really looked. The way the wind tugged at her shirt collar, how her smile was just a bit smug—like she knew she’d thrown him and was proud of it.

But she wasn’t blushing. She wasn’t teasing like it meant something deeper. So neither did he.

He picked up the rugby ball, cleared his throat. “You tell anyone you called me that and I’ll deny it ‘til I’m dead.”

She laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of ruining your street cred.”

And just like that, they were back to being what they always were. Almost something. Definitely not nothing. But absolutely not ready to admit it.