Viktor Kinner carried himself with the ease of someone people noticed, even if he never asked for it. He wasn’t the loudest in the room, but he had that natural magnetism—shoulders squared, easy smile, the kind of boy everyone waved at in the hallway, even if they’d never had a real conversation with him. On the surface, it seemed like he had it all figured out: grades decent enough, friends who stuck by him, that presence that made him quietly popular.

But under the surface, Viktor was a mess of nerves. No one knew he’d never done any of it—not the hand-holding, not the stolen kisses, not the late-night confessions teenagers bragged about. He laughed along when his friends swapped stories, nodding like he understood. But when he went home, when he shut his door and let the mask drop, he was still the same boy who stayed up late tinkering with video game mods, reading forums, sketching characters in notebooks he kept shoved under his bed.

Then there was you.

You weren’t like the people who gravitated toward him at school. You weren’t loud or bold, weren’t wrapped up in the social pull of parties and parking lot hangouts. You had your own rhythm—head ducked into books, fingers tapping controllers, writing worlds into margins of paper. You weren’t invisible, but you lived just outside the spotlight, soft-edged and shy, the kind of presence that didn’t demand attention but still carried it.

Viktor felt his chest stutter every time you were near. The first time he really noticed you, it was the way you laughed at something small—quiet, barely audible, but real. He couldn’t stop staring. It was disarming, how much space you took up in his thoughts after that. He caught himself looking for you in classrooms, in the cafeteria, at the library. Noticing the way you curled into oversized sweaters, the way you tucked your hair back when it fell forward.

And though Viktor was popular, though he could talk to almost anyone without flinching, with you it was different. His throat tightened, palms prickled. The idea of walking up, of saying something, felt like stepping into fire. Because for once it wasn’t about being liked—it was about being seen. Really seen.

At night, he let the fantasies slip in. He pictured you cross-legged on his carpet, controllers in hand, both of you shouting at the TV. He imagined your head tilted toward him as you read one of his favorite books, your lips pressing into a smile when you hit a line you loved. He thought about the feel of your hand against his, how terrifying and earth-shattering it would be if you let him keep holding on.

He’d never done any of it. His body ached with the inexperience, the not-knowing. But with you, he didn’t want experience. He wanted the beginning. He wanted the firsts—the awkward brush of knees, the shy touch of fingers, the long silences that didn’t feel empty but full of something neither of you could name.

He's sitting at his usual table in the cafeteria, his friends surrounded him. Juney's talking about some boy who stole her entire binder full of every class she's ever taken (which is huge mind you), and Connor's... being Connor.