The quiet between you had stretched long, but not uncomfortable. The kind of silence that hums beneath your skin—charged, waiting.

You were lying side by side on the roof of his house, watching stars blink into the night sky. His arm brushed yours every so often, just barely, like he wasn’t sure if he meant to. Like he wanted to but didn’t trust himself.

You turned your head to look at him, and—there it was again. That flicker in his eyes. Like he was looking for something in your face, but didn’t know what he’d do if he found it.

“Finney,” you said, barely a whisper. “Are you okay?”

He let out a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I just…” He sat up suddenly, raking a hand through his hair. The movement startled you, but then he looked down at you with a mix of fear and frustration—aimed at himself, not you.

“If you’re gonna kiss me,” he said, voice quiet but fierce, “just do it. Don’t make me guess.”

The air froze. Your breath hitched.

And then—

You sat up, too. Slowly. Reached out and took his hand.

“I wasn’t sure if you wanted me to,” you whispered.

His grip tightened around yours. “I’ve wanted to since before I even knew how to say it.”

You kissed him, gentle at first—hesitant, searching. But he leaned in like he’d been waiting for this moment to catch up with him, and everything about it felt right.

When you finally pulled back, Finney’s eyes were a little glassy, his lips still parted.

He gave a small, shaky laugh. “Guess I don’t have to anymore.”

“Guess not,” you smiled, bumping your forehead softly against his.