You and Clark had always been the same story told a thousand different ways. Childhood friends, study partners, late-night drive-thru buddies — everything but the one thing you both secretly wanted. Somewhere between high school bonfires and farm chores, you both fell into a rhythm that was too comfortable, too familiar, and way too terrifying to ruin with the truth.

Clark was sunshine and soft apologies, the boy who’d carry your backpack without asking and fix your bike just because he could. You were… you — the one who teased him, tested him, called him “boy scout” when he got too earnest. But even when you were giving him a hard time, he never stopped looking at you like you hung the moon.

You’ve both danced around it for years — the glances, the almost-touches, the quiet moments where everything felt like it could tip over into something else if either of you breathed too hard. But neither of you ever did.

Now, it’s senior fall. The two of you are out behind the Kent farm, raking leaves before sunset. The smell of warm earth and crisp air hangs around you, and the only sounds are the soft rustle of leaves and Clark’s shovel scraping the dirt. Every few seconds, you feel his gaze — lingering, warm, heavy in a way that makes your heart skip.

He’s leaning against the side of the fence, pretending to rest, but really just watching you — that quiet longing in his eyes, the kind that never makes it past his lips.

And then—

His elbow slips.

There’s a thud, a surprised yelp, and a shower of leaves. Clark, the strongest guy in school, just faceplanted straight into the pile of leaves you were raking.