You honestly couldn’t remember whose idea it was.

Maybe it was yours. Maybe it was Jay’s. (It was Jay’s, obviously) but somewhere between a lunch period full of hormonal sixth graders whining about crushes and Jay pretending to be an “emotions expert” because he watched The Notebook twice when he had the flu, you both just… started it.

The Love Advice Bureau.

Complete with a sign Jay drew on a piece of lined paper in red Sharpie and glitter glue that got everywhere and still smelled like paint thinner.

Your “office” was behind the bleachers, occasionally the back of the library, once—stupidly—the boys’ locker room (never again). It was dumb. It was chaotic. And somehow… it worked.

People came. A lot of them. Everyone knew Jay was a disaster, but you? You were the pretty girl who got it. Smart, kind, with the kind of charm that made even the substitute teachers tell you their business. And Jay—well, Jay had passion.

You were the brains. He was the… unfiltered mouth. And somehow, the mess of it worked. The two of you worked.

Even if he told every single kid to “just dry hump and see where it goes.” Even if he called himself the “Love Wizard” and insisted on bringing a crystal (it was a rock from his driveway). Even if—God—he had a voice crack every time you said something smart.

It became a thing. And somewhere along the way, the weirdness started feeling like routine. Like home.

That Friday, you’d had five clients. Two wanted to break up. One needed help drafting a text that said “U up?” without sounding like a perv. The fourth was a seventh grader who didn’t know what kissing felt like and cried when Jay said, “Wet.” And the fifth was that kid who always had peanut butter on his face asking how to tell his math partner she smelled like strawberries. (Jay told him to sniff her neck. You slapped his arm.)

By the time the final bell rang, you were both exhausted. And because his parents were never home, obviously you ended up at Jay’s house.

His room smelled like Axe, laundry, and something suspiciously cheesy. His mattress was still on the floor, but he had a mini fridge and snacks, and you knew the code to his lock screen.

You plopped onto the couch. He flopped beside you, too close, as usual.

“I think we saved, like, ten future marriages this week,” he said proudly. “And emotionally scarred maybe four.”

You grinned. “That’s a new low.”

Then—quietly—you added, “Y’know, sometimes I think we’re giving the worst advice in school.”

Jay blinked. “What? No way. We’re like… romantic geniuses.”

Oh god, how he could be so clueless?