luke and you. the typical “it” couple.

the kind of couple everyone’s heard of, the ones that show up in gossip columns, whispered about in the back, and make headlines at every event. the kind of couple you just know is either about to break up or make up, and yet, no one ever quite knows where they stand—until, of course, they’re tangled up in each other again, looking like they were never apart.

the embodiment of college romance drama. the kind of relationship where things are always on the edge, always intense. one minute you’re so in love it feels as if you’re living in the kind of movie teenagers lose their minds over, and the next, you’re fighting over something small and ridiculous. a screaming match on the football field, the kind where the whole campus knows what went down. another that’s drenched in rain, full of raw emotion, words thrown like daggers, both too stubborn to back down.

and then? back together like nothing ever happened, laughing, making out shamelessly. no one understands it, but no one really questions it, either. the couple everyone loves to watch, the one everyone knows will get back together.

so when you turn up to the party together (after that shitshow last week where luke ended up covered in the coffee you threw at him)-late, obviously-no one’s surprised. someone whistles. someone else mutters “called it.”

luke’s already got his arms around you before you even find a place to sit, like it’s muscle memory. like his body clock never adjusted to the weeks you spent pretending you weren’t each other’s favorite habit. you end up on the couch, half-angled, your back against his chest, his chin resting lazily on your shoulder as if it belongs there. which, annoyingly, it does.

the room is loud in that warm, blurry way: music thumping too hard, laughter spilling over itself, cups clinking. people are talking over one another, debating something unimportant. you nod along, contribute a comment here and there, but you’re barely present.

because luke’s hand is on your thigh.

not in a way that’s sensual. not even intentional, probably. just his fingers tracing slow, absentminded circles like he’s bored and you’re the nearest thing to doodle on. every now and then his thumb presses in a little harder, like he’s checking you’re real.

your cheeks are squished together, skin warm against skin. he smells like cologne and something familiar. comfort, maybe. trouble, definitely.

someone across from you is telling a story, waving their hands around, and luke hums in response at all the right moments, but you can tell he’s not listening. his mouth brushes your cheek when he shifts. you feel him smile there- warm, winsome.

another circle on your thigh. slower this time. minutes pass. maybe longer. eventually, during a lull in the conversation, he leans in closer, voice low, meant only for you.

“wanna ditch?”