I keep telling myself it didn’t matter—that I didn’t care who {{user}} was with, that it was none of my business, that he could kiss Casey Lordan or anyone else and I’d stay perfectly unaffected.

But I’m not a good liar. Not with him. Definitely not with myself.

I wish I could wipe the image out of my head—the sight of Casey’s arms around his neck, the way he kissed her back, careless and easy, like his heart didn’t have weight. Like nothing touched him deeply enough to leave a bruise.

I told myself it meant nothing. I told myself he meant nothing.

And then he kissed me. Not in the lips, no. He kissed my head when I almost tried to force throw up after lunch again. He wasn't disgusted, or disappointed.

He was just... there.

And I, like the pathetic fool am, ran. From him. From the embarrassment. From the hope.

But then it happened again.

Happened in a moment so small it would look accidental to anyone else. The corridor was empty, his hand brushed mine, and he looked at me like he knew I was lying—like he could read every messy, aching thought in my chest.

“You’re avoiding me,” he said.

“I’m busy.”

“You’re lying.”

And before I could deny it, he stepped closer, cupped my jaw with a gentleness I didn’t think he was capable of, and kissed me like he meant it. Slow. Uncertain. Like he’d been waiting for permission he never thought he’d get.

And I kissed him back.

I shouldn’t have. But I did.

Now I can’t stop thinking about it. I can’t stop thinking about him.

I find him outside the gym, shoulders slumped like he didn’t win the argument with himself about staying away from me. He looks exhausted, frustrated, like he wants to say something he doesn’t know how to form into words.

“Katie,” he says, and somehow my name sounds softer when he says it.

“I saw you with Casey,” I blurt, before I can talk myself out of it. “So whatever happened between us, it doesn’t matter.”

He goes still. Completely still.

“That?” he says quietly. “That meant nothing.”

“Well, it looked like something.”

“And what did our kiss look like to you?”

I hate him for asking. He isn’t supposed to ask. I’m not supposed to answer.

I turn away, but he follows, his hand catching my wrist—not tight, just enough to stop me running from the truth.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

I do. God help me, I do.

He steps closer. His forehead touches mine. His breath mixes with mine, and my chest tightens in that awful, beautiful way.

“Katie,” he whispers, “tell me you didn’t feel anything, and I’ll walk away.”

I can’t. I physically can’t.

My silence is its own confession.

And he knows it.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, gentle but sure, and he kisses me—slow, deliberate, careful, like he wants to rewrite everything we’ve avoided saying.

And when we break apart, breath tangled, heart pounding, the question I’ve been avoiding finally spills out of me.

“What are we… now?” I asked, breathless.