The air in the music room was thick with silence. The piano keys sat untouched, and the distant echo of rugby practice outside was the only sound filling the space.

She stood near the window, arms crossed tight over her chest like she was trying to hold herself together. Her hair was slightly damp from the rain, cheeks flushed—not from the cold, but from nerves.

Hughie leaned against the wall, his hoodie hanging loosely from his frame, jaw tight, eyes fixed on her like he was bracing for a hit.

She finally turned to face him.

“We should stop,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “This… thing between us. The sneaking around. The late-night texts. The… whatever this is.”

He didn’t speak.

“I think we should just go back to being friends,” she added. “It’s getting too messy.”

Hughie let out a slow breath, almost a laugh, but it wasn’t amused—it was gutted.

He pushed off the wall and walked toward her, slow, like every step cost him something. He didn’t touch her, just looked her in the eyes, sharp and soft all at once.

“You want to go back?” he asked quietly. “Back to being just mates?”

She nodded, but her eyes glossed over. “It’s safer.”

And then Hughie stepped closer. Closer still. Just enough that she could feel the warmth of him without him even brushing against her.

He looked at her like she was breaking him in real time.

Then, softly, like it hurt to say: “How can I be your friend… when I know the way you taste?”

Her breath caught.

His voice cracked a little as he added, “You really think I can sit across from you at lunch and pretend I don’t remember your hands in my hair? Or how you sound when you say my name like that?”

Silence.

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

So he stepped back. One step. Two.

“I’ll do it if that’s what you want,” he said. “But don’t ask me to pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

Then he left her standing there. Heart pounding. Tears slipping. And a mouth that remembered every part of him.