Patrick’s bedroom was a comfortable mess—schoolbooks scattered across the bed, his school jumper tossed over the desk chair, and a faint hum of music playing from his speaker. The late afternoon sun bled through the curtains, softening everything with that warm, golden-hour haze.

She was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a pencil tucked behind her ear, eyebrows furrowed as she explained the difference between similes and metaphors for the third time. Her notes were color-coded. His were… nonexistent.

Patrick wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.

Not because he didn’t care—he did. But because he was too busy watching her.

The way her mouth moved when she read. The way her lashes flicked down when she scribbled a note. The soft crease in her brow when she was focused.

She looked up, mid-sentence, and caught him staring.

“What?”

Patrick blinked. “What?” he echoed, trying to recover, but his voice came out a bit hoarse.

“You’re staring.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes dropping to her notebook, then back to her face—still stunned by how close she was and how he hadn’t noticed anything but her.

“You’re so smart,” he said. Quiet. Like it was a confession.

And before she could respond, before either of them had time to overthink it, he leaned forward and kissed her.

It wasn’t practiced or smooth—just a soft brush of lips, tentative and fleeting, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed but couldn’t help himself.

She froze.

He pulled back instantly, heart hammering.

“I—sorry,” he breathed. “I didn’t… I don’t know why I—”

She looked at him, eyes wide, mouth parted. And then—

“It’s okay,” she whispered, cheeks flushed, eyes darting down to the space between them. “Let’s… go back to studying.”

So they did.

But neither of them noticed the open book anymore. Only the electric tension buzzing between them, the question neither had dared ask, and the kiss they didn’t talk about.