The hallway is empty after last period, lockers clicking shut one by one until it’s just you and Liam standing there like neither of you knows what to do next. It’s only been three days since you finally admitted you liked each other—three days since the bickering turned into something that feels terrifyingly real.

Liam leans against the wall, arms crossed, pretending to be casual. He’s never been good at pretending with you.

“You’ve been quiet since lunch,” he says, watching you with those sharp, too-honest eyes. “That’s usually my thing, not yours.”

You raise a brow. “I’m allowed to think, you know.”

He snorts. “Yeah, but usually it’s right before you roast me.”

You shoot him a look, and he cracks, running a hand through his hair in that restless way he does when he’s nervous.

“Okay, see? That. That face.” He huffs out a breath. “Just say whatever you’re holding in before it kills me.”

You hesitate, and Liam reads it instantly—of course he does. He always read you too well, even when you hated each other.

He pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “Go on, tell me how I’ve fucked us up before we’ve even started.”

The words come out half-challenge, half-fear—like he’s daring you to break his heart but hoping you won’t.

He softens just a little, voice quieter: “…Or you could just tell me what you’re thinking. I promise I won’t run.”

There’s enough space for you to step toward him—or away. Liam waits, jaw tight, trying not to look as scared as he is.