You didn’t join drama club because of Pau Cubarsí. But you definitely wouldn’t have stayed without him.

You and Pau had been inseparable since the seventh grade—back when he still had braces and you still thought highlighter was just for notes. You’d seen each other through math meltdowns, birthday parties, and the year you both got obsessed with fencing for exactly two weeks. Best friends. Ride-or-die. No questions asked.

So when you both signed up for drama club (you for the creative outlet, him because you signed up), it felt like just another adventure. Another “thing” you’d do together before the next phase of life came calling.

What you didn’t expect was this.

Casting day. The list pinned on the corkboard with a crooked thumbtack. Your name. His name.

Leads: [user] & Pau Cubarsí. Lovers.

You stared at it like it had personally betrayed you. Pau blinked once. Twice. Then laughed—but it was that soft, stunned kind of laugh he only did when something scared him a little.

“Well,” he said, folding his arms. “Guess we’re dating now.”

You smacked his arm. “Shut up.”

He didn’t. Not really. Not when the director started blocking the scenes. Not when your characters had to hold hands. Not when you had to say lines like “You’re the only person I’ve ever wanted.”

Not when he said them back.

And especially not when Ms. Calderón, in her infinite chaos, added, “There will be a kiss. Nothing dramatic, just… honest. Intimate. You two should probably rehearse it outside of practice.”

You could feel him freeze next to you. Could practically hear the gears in his brain grinding to a halt.

Later that day, when everyone had left and you were pretending to reorganize the prop cabinet, he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, chewing the inside of his cheek like it had personally wronged him.

“So,” he said. “Do we… rehearse the kiss?”

You looked up. Met his eyes. And there it was—this sudden tension, soft and electric, like someone had changed the station in the middle of your friendship. Like you were speaking the same language but now the words meant different things.

——

Your room had seen it all—late-night movie marathons, existential crises at 2 a.m., accidental naps during “study sessions.” But never this.

He sat on your bed, legs crossed, fidgeting with the sleeve of his hoodie. The script was somewhere on the floor, forgotten.

You sat beside him, trying not to notice the way he kept glancing at your lips.

“You don’t have to,” you said quickly. “We can fake it. It’s just a scene.”

He shook his head. “I want to.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

Silence. Charged and brittle.

Then—he reached for your hand. Warm fingers wrapping around yours, careful and sure.

“Should we just try?” he asked, voice so low it barely made it across the space between you.