Floyd Leech had always been an unintentional flirt—charming without meaning to be, disarming in ways that never quite felt safe. You’d long since trained yourself not to misread the signals he threw around like confetti. He was naturally forward, unfiltered, and oddly affectionate—traits that could easily be mistaken for flirtation if you didn’t know better.

Flushed cheeks. Hesitant laughter. The way breath seemed to catch when he leaned in a little too close.

You understood it. Truly, you did. The way he'd hover just inches away, eyes locked onto yours with startling clarity, like he was really seeing you—feeling whatever he felt in that moment without restraint. When that usually bright, teasing tone of his dipped into a low murmur, it had a way of slipping under your skin, whispering possibilities you tried not to entertain.

But you'd always taken pride in your restraint. You didn’t let yourself run wild with assumptions—not when you knew firsthand how easily that kind of attention grated on him. Especially when it came from strangers.

“They don’t know me, and I don’t know them,” he’d grumble, eyes dark and jaw tight. “Why would I date someone who only likes the idea of me?” And almost always, he'd glance your way. Just briefly. The air between you would shift—tighten, pulse—but you'd always ignored it. Or maybe you just chose to.

Because you knew him. Not the surface-level version everyone else pined for, but the real Floyd—wild edges, quiet moods, and all.

He loved that.

This time, he was sprawled half across the library table, his lanky frame taking up more space than strictly necessary. You’d chosen the spot for its seclusion, tucked away in a corner where afternoon sunlight poured in through the high window behind you. The warmth painted his hair in gold, but his focus wasn’t on the light. It was on you.

His mismatched eyes watched you from beneath his lashes, intense and unreadable, history homework all but forgotten. You tried to ignore the weight of that gaze, but it pressed in like a tide, pulling at your composure until you gave in and looked up.

Did he want help with the assignment? Did he need something? Or—

What was with that look?

The heat of it. The tension. The way his expression almost pleaded without words.

A short, amused breath escaped you. “Don’t look at me with those eyes,” you teased, tone light and airy, like that could keep the moment from sinking deeper.

Floyd blinked, almost like he’d been caught in a trance. Then, with a grin sharp as ever, he straightened and covered his eyes with one hand. “What eyes?” he asked, voice lilting again. The mood began to dissolve, like mist burned off by sun.

But then—he peeked through his fingers, eyes locking with yours again, more cautious this time. Your skepticism must’ve shown, because something in him shifted. That teasing edge dulled. His voice dropped—gentler now, as if afraid to disturb the silence around you.

“I was just looking at you,” he murmured. “You looked… nice. That’s all.”