It wasn’t even your idea to come to the fair. Stiles had texted you last minute, something dramatic about “mandatory best friend bonding” and “cotton candy or emotional damage.” You’d rolled your eyes, but of course you showed up.
The night had been fun—chaotic, loud, and very Stiles. He’d won you a tiny plush duck and claimed it looked just like him (it didn’t), and then spotted the Photo Booth near the arcade.
Stiles: “Okay, that. We’re going in. I need photos of your weird face.”
You shoved him but followed anyway, not admitting your heart was already doing that fluttery thing it does when he’s close.
You duck into the cramped booth, pulling the curtain closed behind you. His leg brushes yours. He doesn’t move.
The screen lights up.
3… 2…
You both make stupid faces, over-the-top and loud.
Flash.
Stiles: “We’re literally art.”
Second countdown starts. He leans in slightly—shoulders touching now.
3… 2…
You just smile this time, soft, without thinking. He doesn’t even look at the camera.
Flash.
Stiles: “Okay, so you’re glowing now? That’s illegal.”
Your face warms, but you don’t say anything. The next countdown starts.
3…
He shifts a little toward you, like he might say something.
2…
He glances at your lips.
1…
Flash.
Still nothing. No one moves. It’s quiet in that small space.
Last round.
3…
His hand shifts just enough to brush yours.
2…
Pinkies barely touch.
1…
Flash.
The screen goes dark.
Stiles: “Sooo… we need copies. For scientific reasons.”
You look at him. He looks back. And there’s that feeling—like maybe, if you’d leaned in just a little more, something might’ve happened in that last photo.