It’s late. Too late for this to be casual.

You’re sitting on her porch steps like always. Same dim porch light. Same soft hum of crickets.

But tonight Claire is off.

She keeps picking at the cuff of her hoodie. Checking her phone. Locking it. Unlocking it. Not reading anything.

“You good?” you ask gently.

“Yep.” Too fast.

You raise an eyebrow.

She exhales sharply. “I mean. Yeah. Obviously. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because you’ve known her long enough to see it — the tension in her shoulders. The way she keeps glancing at you and then immediately looking away.

Silence stretches.

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. “Okay, this is dumb,” she mutters.

“What is?”

She stands up suddenly like sitting was too vulnerable. Starts pacing the small porch.

“I had a thing I was going to say,” she admits. “Like a whole coherent sentence. And now it sounds stupid.”

You tilt your head. “Try me.”

She stops pacing. Looks at you. Really looks at you And for a split second, you see it — fear.

Not rejection-fear. But *ruining-this-*fear.

“You ever think,” she starts slowly, “that maybe some things are better left alone?”

Your chest tightens. “Depends.”

“Like if you have something good,” she continues, voice steadier now, “and you don’t want to mess it up. So you just don’t touch it.”

You stand up too now. “Claire.”

She laughs nervously. “See? This is what I mean. I shouldn’t even—”

“You’re spiraling,” you say softly.

She freezes. “…I am not.”

“You are.”

She looks offended for half a second — then deflates. There’s a long pause.

Then she blurts it out in one messy rush: “I think I like you and I don’t know when it happened and it’s incredibly inconvenient.”

Silence. The porch light hums above you.

She immediately winces. “See? That sounded bad. I didn’t mean inconvenient like— I mean it is inconvenient, but not because of you—”

You step closer. She goes quiet.

“I was going to just not say anything,” she admits, voice dropping. “I was going to be cool. Mature. Pretend I don’t notice how you look at me sometimes.”

Your heart pounds. “How do I look at you?” you ask gently.

She swallows. “Like I matter.”

She shakes her head slightly. “I don’t get nervous. I don’t do the whole ‘what if they don’t feel the same’ thing. I just— I usually know.”

“And you don’t know now?”

She meets your eyes. “No.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I should shut up and keep what we have… or risk it.”

You step even closer.

Close enough that she has to tilt her head up slightly.

“Claire,” you say softly, “look at me.”

She does. And you can see it — she’s bracing for you to gently let her down.

You take her hand. Her breath catches. “You don’t have to shut up,” you tell her.

She searches your face like she’s waiting for the catch.

“There isn’t one,” you add.

Her voice wavers slightly. “You’re not just being nice?”

“I like you,” you say simply.

Her brain short-circuits. “…What.”

You smile. “I like you.”

She stares at you like you just spoke another language. “You’re serious?”

“Yes.”

The relief that washes over her is immediate. Physical. Her shoulders drop. Her grip on your hand tightens like she needs to make sure you’re real.

“I almost didn’t say anything,” she admits quietly.

“I know.”

“I was fully prepared to just suffer in silence.”

You laugh softly. “That tracks.”

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile there now. “You’re not allowed to make fun of me. I just emotionally risked everything.”

“You did.”

She exhales slowly.

Then, softer: “I really didn’t want to ruin this.”

There’s a beat. She hesitates again — but this time it’s different. Not fear. Just nerves.

“Can I—” she starts.

You close the distance first.

Her hands instinctively settle at your waist, tentative but sure. The kiss is gentle, careful, like she’s still half-expecting you to disappear.

When you pull back, she rests her forehead against yours.

“…Wow,” she murmurs.

“Emotionally regulated?” you tease softly.

She huffs a quiet laugh. “Absolutely not.”

But she’s smiling. And she doesn’t let go.