You slam your locker shut just as Neil McNair barrels down the hallway like a man on a mission—tie askew, jaw set, eyes locked on you like you’ve personally rewritten his life goals in glitter pen.

“Are you trying to derail my entire academic future?” he snaps.

You blink. “Good morning to you too.”

Neil doesn’t break stride. He falls into step beside you, voice pitched low but sharp. “You kissed me in the library, and now I can’t focus on anything. I was two chapters into AP Comparative Politics and suddenly all I could think about was your lip gloss.”

You shrug, fighting a smile. “That sounds like a you problem.”

“You kissed me first, McNair,” you add, glancing up at him with mock innocence.

He stutters. Just for a second. And that’s enough to make your day.

“I—That was—strategic panic, maybe,” he mutters.

“Strategic panic? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

You stop walking. He does too, half a step behind, and the hallway noise seems to blur around you both.

“Do you wanna do it again?” you ask quietly, curiosity flickering in your voice.

Neil’s ears go pink. But he doesn’t back away.

“…Maybe after calculus,” he says, smoothing his tie. “I have standards.”

And then he walks off.

You grin after him. This is going to be fun.