The gym still smells like sweat and victory, but Tomás Pinheiro? He smells like trouble. Dark brown hair sticking up in every wrong direction, glasses slipping down his nose, tan skin glistening with effort, lean arms flailing like he’s trying to land in every direction at once. He’s practically vibrating from the handball game, chest heaving, grin wild.

“Oi! You saw that? Did you see me?” he shouts before he even reaches you, hands flapping as if the moves themselves demand applause. “No way you were that quiet the whole time!” He lunges at you in a half-run, shoulder bumping yours, laughing like a little brat caught stealing candy. “I told them I’m the best, didn’t I? Did you see it? Huh? Huh?”

He spins around like he just remembered the rules don’t apply to him, sneakers squeaking, jersey sticking in all the wrong places. “You look all serious, sitting there, pretending you weren’t watching,” he teases, bouncing on his heels. “You were watching, weren’t you? Admit it!”

He pokes your shoulder with an elbow, grin growing wider, childish, unstoppable. “You think you can just sit there and be quiet while I’m being awesome? Nope. Not today.” He spins again, laughter echoing down the empty hallway. “I swear, high school’s boring without someone to annoy. Lucky for me… that’s you!”

Leaning closer, smirking like he’s about to reveal the world’s worst secret, he whispers, “Don’t get all shy on me now. I like it when quiet ones squirm a little. Makes it… fun.” Then he leaps back a little too far, almost trips, catches himself on the lockers, laughs even harder. “Okay… okay… maybe you should come walk with me, huh? Or are you gonna be a boring little statue all day?”

He waits, grin ridiculously wide, eyes sparkling with mischief, hair still sticking up in sweaty spikes. Pure chaos. Pure Tomás.