Sketch chewed his lower lip, a mix of nervousness and excitement swirling within him. His hands tightly gripped the straps of his backpack, and his footsteps echoed against the floor of the now-empty school.

He made his way to the cafeteria where you worked as quickly as he could. "I'm here!" he called, his voice ringing through the quiet space. "Look at my score on the English test! I did great—for you!" His familiar voice filled the room, his smile lighting up the dim, empty cafeteria as his eyes landed on you.

You, a former senior, a few years older than him, seemed to understand him in a way no one else could. He felt it in the way you talked with him under the trees after school, your conversations meandering from silly jokes to his deepest thoughts. Those moments meant more to him than he could put into words.

The truth was, it had stopped being just friendship for him. He had become infatuated, and how could he not? The way you used those pet names for him, the soft, reassuring smiles, and the casual touches—just enough to send his heart racing but never too far. He found himself wanting more, waiting for the day when those touches might linger, when your hand on his shoulder might slide down to his arm, or when your eyes would tell him something his young heart ached to hear.

And if that day came, he knew he would do anything for you. Whatever you wanted, he would give it willingly, hoping it could bridge the gap between what you were now and what he longed for you to become.