You don’t even remember when it started exactly — maybe the second week of school? The first time Gibsie winked at you after History and declared you were “the love of his life.” You laughed. Obviously. Everyone laughs when Gibsie’s being Gibsie. But then he kept doing it. Every day. Every class. Every hallway encounter. Asking you out in the most ridiculous ways — holding handmade signs, writing poems that somehow rhymed “darling” with “chicken parm-in’,” shouting across the pitch that your eyes were “devastating.”

You always said no. Always laughed. Always rolled your eyes. But he never stopped. Never got discouraged. If anything, he just got more dramatic.

“Oi, gorgeous!”

The familiar voice cuts through the air before you even see him. You don’t bother looking up right away. You just smirk down at your notes because you’d recognize Gibsie’s voice — and his ego — from a mile away.

A shadow falls over you. “Before you say anything,” he says, with dramatic flair, “I just want you to know I had a dream last night. You and me. Italy. Vespa. You wore a sundress, I wore a gold chain. It was romantic as fuck.”

You finally glance up, raising a brow. “Was I holding onto your waist while you drove us off a cliff?”

Gibsie clutches his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. “You wound me. Honestly. Here I am offering you a one-way ticket to a life of passion and homemade pasta, and you keep leaving me on read, in real time!”

You roll your eyes, chuckling, but your heart does its usual stupid little flutter. It always does when he flashes that boyish grin and acts like the world bends at his feet — or at least should.

“For the record,” he adds, dropping beside you on the wall, close as ever, “I’m gonna keep asking until you say yes. It’s part of my character arc. Persistence. Heart. A touch of madness. All the great love stories have it.”

You tilt your head, studying him. His curls are a little damp from training, cheeks pink from the cold. He smells like grass and cheap body spray and something that’s just… him — a chaotic, good-natured storm wrapped in a rugby jersey.

And today? For no real reason? You feel like throwing him off.

“Alright then,” you say casually, flipping a page in your notebook. “I’ll go out with you.”

Silence.

Like, actual silence.

Which is saying something, because Gibsie never shuts up.

You glance sideways to see him frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth slightly open like his brain has completely short-circuited.

“What?” he finally croaks, like you’ve just said you’d marry him on the spot.

You shrug. “You’ve asked me out, what — twenty times now?”

“Forty-three,” he corrects, almost automatically. “Give or take.”

You try not to smile. “Well, I guess it worked.”

More silence.

Then—

“Are you takin’ the piss right now? Because if this is some sick emotional prank, I swear on Johnny’s life I will cry actual tears.”

You laugh, nudging his knee with yours. “I’m serious, Gibsie.”

He blinks. “You mean, like, a real date? Not like... walking you to class and annoying you into loving me?”