Clapton Davis had a type. Or so it seemed.

Every other week it was someone new—another pretty face holding his hand in the hallway, another name whispered behind lockers like it meant something. It was routine by now: flirt, date, disappear, repeat. And every time, you rolled your eyes harder than the last.

“Seriously? Her?” you asked one afternoon, leaning against his locker as he strolled up, all smug grin and tousled hair like he hadn’t just been the subject of your third-period group chat.

“What? She’s cool,” he shrugged, digging through his backpack like it wasn’t a big deal.

“She nearly set the science lab on fire trying to microwave a fork.”

He laughed. “Danger’s hot.”

“You’re an idiot.”

You weren’t sure when you’d started getting annoyed. Maybe it was always there. Maybe it was the way Clapton seemed to chase everything and everyone except you. Not that you wanted him to, of course. That would be… ridiculous.

Still, something twisted in your chest every time he showed up with his arm around someone else’s shoulders. You told yourself it was protectiveness, that you just didn’t want your best friend getting hurt again.

But even you weren’t buying that anymore.

It wasn’t until one late afternoon—detention, of all places—that he finally said something.

You were both stuck there for arguing with a substitute (he’d started it, you’d made it worse). The classroom was quiet, sun dripping in through half-shut blinds, and Clapton wasn’t being his usual obnoxious self.

He was fidgeting.

“You know I’m not actually into them, right?” he said suddenly, not looking at you.

You raised a brow. “Into who?”

He exhaled like the air had been stuck in his chest all day. “Any of them. I date them and I smile, but they’re not the one I actually—” He stopped. “They’re not you.”

You blinked. “Wait, what?”

He finally looked at you, expression vulnerable in a way you’d never seen. “I genuinely don’t know why my brain goes blank when I look at you. I think I’m going crazy.”

You laughed, because it was easier than letting your heart break out of your ribs. “Yeah, I think you are going crazy.”

“I’m being serious,” he said, voice lower now, raw.

And that was the worst part.

Because you knew he meant it.