⸻

So… yeah. You and André had a slight disagreement yesterday.

And by slight, he was only a little upset. Not mad-mad. Just enough to be annoying about it.

Because you weren’t talking to him.

And André Harris does not get ignored.

At first, it was subtle. A poke to your side while you were minding your business. A rogue hard fry smacking your arm when you weren’t looking. Then another.

You didn’t even know how— but somehow you found one in your bra, and when you turned around, André was already looking away, whistling like he wasn’t guilty as hell.

Every time you tried to escape—bathroom break, water fountain, anything— he’d magically appear just in time to trip you with a foot and a smug little grin.

Childish? Yes. Effective? Unfortunately.

You almost made it to your locker. Almost.

Before you could slam it shut, a familiar presence was suddenly way too close.

“Don’t make a scene,” André murmured casually, like he wasn’t about to commit a crime.

Next thing you knew— you were being scooped up and tossed over his shoulder with a low grunt.

“ANDRÉ— put me DOOOOWN! I don’t wanna talk to you!” you protested, gripping onto him as he walked.

“Well I wanna talk to you,” he shot back, voice still ridiculously calm.

Despite the scene you were absolutely making, no one even blinked. Just another day at Hollywood Arts.

He kicked open the auditorium door and finally set you down inside, the room quiet and empty—supposedly.

He straightened up, tugged his shirt down, then pointed at you. “Now, lis— ay!”

You tried to move past him.

Nope.

He slid in front of the door, blocking it completely, palms up. “Listen. You keep ignorin’ me like it’s gonna do something. It’s not. We both know that.”

He stepped closer, tapping his chest for emphasis. “But c’mon… I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was gonna be that deep to you.”

His voice softened just a little.

“For real.”