Jackson had never considered himself a particularly attentive person. Ask his teachers, ask his friends — he was easygoing to a fault, unbothered by most things, slow to react. That was before you. Somewhere between the first time he saw you laugh with your sleeves pulled over your hands and right now, something in him had quietly rearranged itself without asking his permission. He didn't talk about it. He barely acknowledged it to himself. But it was there — steady and certain — the way his eyes found you in a crowded hallway before he'd even consciously looked.

It wasn't anything dramatic. It never was. It was the way he'd fall into step beside you without thinking whenever the hallway got too crowded. The way he'd shift slightly, almost imperceptibly, whenever someone stood a little too close to you. He never made a scene. Never said anything. Just — moved. Adjusted. Positioned himself like it was the most natural thing in the world, because to him, it was.

You noticed on a Tuesday. Some guy from your chemistry class had leaned against the locker beside yours, talking a little too long about nothing in particular. You hadn't minded.

But Jackson, who had been mid-conversation with Marcus three lockers down, had somehow drifted closer without either of you seeing it happen. He didn't intervene. Didn't say anything to the guy. Just stood near you, relaxed and laughing at something Marcus said, his arm almost brushed yours.

The guy left shortly after. You turned and looked at Jackson. He looked back with complete innocence. "What?" You squinted at him. He maintained eye contact with the confidence of someone who had rehearsed this. You said nothing — just smiled slowly, the kind of smile that meant you'd filed this information away somewhere safe.

Jackson looked back at Marcus and resumed his conversation like nothing had happened. But when your hand found his a moment later, he didn't say anything about that either. He just held it. Quietly. Like he'd been waiting.