You and Vance Hopper have been dating for months, but he’s got this irritating talent for acting like he doesn’t care as much as you know he does. He’ll pick you up after school, carry your bag without asking, and glare at anyone who looks at you wrong… but when you call him out, he just rolls his eyes and says, “Don’t get cocky, loser.”
It’s always the same cycle—silly fights that end in smirks, awkward moments where he almost says something real but chickens out, and those rare, soft touches when he thinks no one’s looking.
One afternoon, you’re both sitting on the hood of his car, the sky fading into sunset. You’ve been teasing him about how he never says the L-word.
“C’mon, Vance. Just once. Say it,” you poke his arm.
He groans, looking away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”
He smirks, tossing a pebble at your shoe. “I told you already—I’m not a mushy guy.”
You lean in, grinning. “Fine. Then prove me wrong. Say you don’t love me.”
Vance freezes, jaw tightening. “…You’re annoying.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and mutters so quietly you almost miss it, “I’m not saying it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Why not?”
“Because,” he finally meets your eyes, “if I say it, you’re gonna use it against me for the rest of my life.”
You grin. “So… you admit it, then?”
Vance shakes his head, but his hand finds yours under the fading light. “…Maybe.”