It started the way most things in my life do — loud music, fast talking, too many sarcastic comments for my own good. But then you showed up, and suddenly I was stumbling over my words like some dorky freshman again.

You weren’t like the others. You didn’t throw teasing remarks back right away or laugh too loudly at my jokes. No, you were more quiet, more subtle. Eyes that flicked toward me and then away too quickly, smiles that tugged at the corners of your mouth like they weren’t sure if they had permission to exist. And damn if that didn’t make you all the more interesting.

We danced around each other for weeks. Just… lingering. In the same places, the same classes, always leaving just a beat too slow. Conversations that started as small talk and stretched into something else — never quite personal, but never casual either.

You’d blush. Not bright red, but just enough for me to notice. And you always had this way of tucking your hair behind your ear when you were nervous, or when I said something just a little too bold.

One time after class, we ended up walking out together. I cracked a joke — something dumb about our teacher and their obsession with pop quizzes — and you laughed, quietly, like you weren’t sure you should. Then you looked up at me through your lashes and said, barely above a whisper, “You’re not like I thought you’d be.”

I blinked. “Yeah? And what did you think I’d be?”

You hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the strap of your bag. “Louder, I guess. Meaner.” You smiled, quick and shy. “But you’re… kind.”

Kind. That hit me harder than I expected.

After that, it got worse. Or better. I don’t know. All I know is I started memorizing the sound of your voice, the way you’d glance at me when you thought I wasn’t paying attention. We’d brush fingers when passing notes or books, and it was like electricity every damn time.

But I couldn’t read you. Not really. Were you just nice? Just quiet? Or were you playing the same slow-burn game I was?

I waited too long. Weeks passed, and every time I thought this is the moment, I’d chicken out. Until one day, after class, we were walking through the empty hallway. Everyone else had left, the lights dim, the silence hanging soft between us.

You were walking beside me, talking about some book you were reading. I wasn’t listening. Not really. I was just watching the way the light caught in your eyes, how your voice got quieter when you got excited about something.

And then you stopped. Looked at me.

“What?” you asked softly, catching me staring.

“I was just thinking,” I said, my voice a little too tight, “that maybe I could take you somewhere sometime. Like, just the two of us.”

Your eyes widened, and you looked down fast. For a second, I thought I’d blown it. But then I saw it — the tiny smile creeping onto your lips.

You didn’t answer right away. Just played with the hem of your sleeve, and after what felt like an eternity, you said, “Okay. I’d like that.”

Barely audible. But it was enough.

Now I’ve got this nervous energy buzzing under my skin, because somehow, I — Eddie Munson, resident freak, headbanger, chaos incarnate — landed a date with the girl who made the world slow down.

And if this is what falling feels like? I don’t think I ever want to hit the ground.