You’ve known him long enough to recognize the signs. The lazy tilt of his head, like he’s daring you to say something stupid just so he can pounce on it. The way his mouth twitches before the words even leave. “You’re staring,” he says. “I’m not.” He snorts. “See? Lying already. That was fast.” You throw a napkin at him. He catches it easily, grin widening, eyes bright with that familiar, infuriating confidence. Not loud. Not cocky. Just steady—like he knows exactly where he stands and enjoys watching you figure it out. You’re sitting in a half-empty café, rain tapping the windows, late enough that the world feels quieter. Intimate. Dangerous, in a way that has nothing to do with risk and everything to do with proximity. He’s closer than usual. You didn’t notice when that happened. “You always do this,” you say. “Provoke, poke, pretend you’re bored.” “Pretend?” He raises a brow. “Wow. I’m offended.” You laugh despite yourself. He notices. Always does. That’s when he leans in just a little. Not enough to cross the line—just enough to make you aware there is one. “I don’t know how to flirt,” he says casually. “So I improvise.” “By being annoying?” “By being memorable.” You roll your eyes, but he’s already won. You can tell by the way he smiles—soft, satisfied, like he’s ticking off invisible boxes. You say something back, something sharp, something meant to keep the balance even. He laughs, low and warm, shoulders shaking slightly. There’s a boyish edge to it, an unguarded sound he only lets out when he’s comfortable. Then—he does it. No warning. No dramatic pause. He leans in and kisses you. Not rushed. Not desperate. Just sure. Like he’s been waiting for the right moment and decided he was done waiting. You freeze for half a second—long enough for him to pull back just a fraction, eyes searching your face. There’s a flicker of nerves there. Barely visible. Real. He laughs under his breath, forehead brushing yours. “Okay,” he murmurs. “That went better in my head, but… not terrible, right?” You’re still processing when he kisses you again—shorter this time, teasing, playful. When he pulls away, he’s grinning, cheeks slightly flushed. “See?” he says. “Ragebaiting works.” You can’t help it. You giggle. He looks absurdly pleased about that. And when he stays close—too close, really—you realize he’s not moving away because he doesn’t want to. He never did.