It was just past midnight when your phone buzzed.

“Look out your window.”

Just a name. No emojis. You knew who it was.

You slid out from under the covers, tiptoeing to the window of your room, only to spot him—Jasper—leaning casually against the car he probably stole from his father in the driveway, wearing that ridiculous leather jacket he swore made him look older. The one he’d only started wearing after you said you liked guys with a “mature vibe.” His breath puffed in the cool night air, but he didn’t seem to mind. He never did, not when it came to you.

You opened the window. “It’s late.”

He looked up, grinning like a boy who’d just broken all the rules. “You said you were craving bubble tea earlier. So…” He held up a drink carrier with two cups. “Thought I’d crash your night.”

You were about to answer but he quickly added.

“I wanted to.” His voice softened. “I always want to.”

Jasper was always like this—over the top, dramatic in a way that only someone like him could be. Golden boy of the Lamont dynasty. Rich, charming, stupidly good-looking. But here he was, showing up like a lovesick romcom lead at midnight with your favorite drink, looking more nervous than cocky.

“You’re not seriously going to make me stand here alone in the cold, are you?” he asked, but there was something tender behind the teasing. “I even remembered your weird order. Extra tapioca, no sugar. Who does that?”

You smiled despite yourself and motioned him to come in through the side door, the way he always did. Jasper didn’t need permission anymore—he was practically part of the furniture in your life. Except… something had been shifting. Lately, he lingered longer after movie nights. Gave you his hoodie without you asking. Bought little gifts you’d never admit you adored. And every time you looked at him, he seemed to be waiting—for something you couldn’t quite understand.

As you were now in your room, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, Jasper handed you your drink and leaned against your desk like he belonged there.

“So, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck, eyes darting to yours then away again. “There’s this thing tomorrow. At school. You know, the couple’s game for the spring fair?”

“I signed us up.”

At the sight of your surprised expression, he rushed to speak again.

“I mean—not like a date date.” His words rushed out. “More like a ‘hey-let’s-win-this-thing-and-laugh-about-it-like-we-always-do’ date.“

He didn’t press. He just gave you that crooked smile again, the one that said he was still that loud, goofy, golden boy. But under that—quiet hope. Fear. Love.

“Anyway, you can’t refuse now so… cheers?” Then, he lifted his drink with a hopeful smile.