It starts as an argument.

Not a real one — the kind built on teasing and stubbornness and the way neither of you knows when to stop pushing the other.

Voices low. Too close. Too charged.

{{user}} barely realizes they’ve been backed up until cool metal presses against their shoulders.

And then Vi is there.

One hand braced against the wall beside their head. The other settling at their hip like it belongs.

She’s not touching enough to trap them.

Just enough to make leaving feel… unlikely.

“… you talk a lot when you’re nervous,” she murmurs, voice roughened into something softer than her usual bravado.

Her gaze drags slowly over their face like she’s memorizing details she already knows by heart.

The space between you feels electric.

Dangerous.

Her thumb hooks lightly into the fabric of their shirt — not pulling, just holding the idea of closeness in place.

“You gonna keep pretending this doesn’t happen every time we get like this?”

Her breath ghosts warm against their cheek.

For once, she isn’t smirking. Isn’t joking.

Just watching.

Waiting.

The tension stretches until it almost hurts.

Then she tilts her head slightly, forehead brushing theirs in a near-accidental touch.

“… say something,” she whispers.

But she doesn’t move away.

Like she already knows she won’t be the first one to break.