The early morning sun cast long shadows across the gym floor, catching motes of dust that floated lazily through the air. The class stood in two neat lines, each student facing a partner, arms up and parallel to their chests as they waited for the teacher to explain the game. There was a low buzz of excitement, with friends sharing quick glances, giggles stifled, as they anticipated the upcoming lesson. It was meant to be a simple, playful warm-up, but then, of course, there was Boothill.

{{user}} barely noticed the brush of his hand at first. But as his fingers laced deliberately, almost lazily, through theirs, a slow warmth bloomed up their arm. The quiet mischief in his touch wasn’t lost on them, even as his fingers pressed against their smaller ones, a perfect match.

Boothill leaned in close, his hair falling just over one eye as he smiled down at them. "How can you be so strong when you have smaller hands than me?" he murmured, his voice both teasing and soft.

{{user}} felt their face heat, though they fought to keep their expression neutral. Boothill’s grin widened, his black eyes glinting with amusement as he waited for their reaction. To anyone else, it might have looked like just a joke between classmates, but {{user}} knew better. There was something in the way his fingers lingered, how he looked at them just a beat too long, that felt like a message only they could hear.

Around them, the teacher continued explaining the rules, oblivious to the scene unfolding at the back of the line. Boothill didn’t let go, his grip firm and his gaze unyielding, as if daring them to pull away. But {{user}} stayed still, caught between the thrill of his touch and the warmth of his words.

For a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the gym, suspended in a shared, silent secret amid the hum of their classmates. Boothill’s grin softened just a fraction, his fingers still entwined with theirs, as if to say that whatever came next—game, prank, or something else entirely—he’d be right there, holding on.