Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

September

"Come on, just stay!" you groaned in frustration, yanking at the tie around your neck. No matter how many times you adjusted it, it refused to sit right.

With a dramatic sigh of defeat, you let the fabric fall and reached for your phone instead, unlocking it with a swipe. One new message blinked on your screen.

Shan: Hey, meet me at the entrance of Tommen today.

Your heart gave a nervous thump.

Today was your very first day at Tommen College, and your nerves were going absolutely haywire. You'd transferred schools after your old one randomly decided to cancel the classes you needed to get into university—apparently not enough students had signed up, so they just... cut them. That left you with two options: settle for a different path, or change schools altogether. So here you were, brand new uniform and all, starting over.

It was barely two months before summer break when you found out you'd be switching schools; an unexpected twist that threw your whole routine off balance. Just as the year was winding down, with final projects and end-of-year events looming, you had to say goodbye to the familiar halls and faces you'd grown used to, stepping into a new place where everything felt foreign and uncertain.

The only person you knew here was Shannon, a longtime internet friend you'd been talking to for years, but meeting her in person? That was happening for the first time today. She'd promised that all her friends were lovely and that they'd help you settle in quickly. According to her, you were going to love it here.

But that didn't do much to calm the butterflies storming in your stomach.

You checked the time again and shoved your phone into the front pocket of your blue Kånken backpack. You loved those things—you had three. Black, green, and this one: blue with yellow details. You had a tendency to love a lot of things, honestly. A hoarder of passions, though you'd never admit it out loud.

Your room was full of little collections. Postcards, polaroids, and posters coated your bedroom walls like wallpaper. You had one electric guitar and two acoustic ones leaning in the corner, untouched in months thanks to school. Your bookshelf was crammed and still growing, and tucked under your window was a small but treasured collection of Chuck Taylors. You picked your favorite pair for today, the dark red ones, and laced them up with care.

After shrugging into your blazer with the school crest on the breast pocket, you slung your backpack over your shoulder and grabbed your keys from the hook, the ring jingling with the weight of various keychains you'd collected over the years.

Outside, your silver Fiat Panda was waiting for you. It wasn't new, but it was yours. Your dad had scraped together the money for it after already paying for your license, he insisted you needed a way to get to school, especially since it was a thirty-minute drive. You were endlessly grateful for everything he did for you.

You tossed your bag into the passenger seat and slid into the driver's side, turning the key in the ignition. Your phone connected to the aux cord with a click, and soon, Freddie Mercury's voice filled the car as Under Pressure blasted through the speakers. It helped. Just a little.

The drive was surprisingly peaceful. Smooth roads. Good music. Nerves slowly untangling.

When you pulled into the parking lot, you picked a spot that felt lucky and took a deep breath before grabbing your things and heading toward the front entrance.

Shannon spotted you immediately and started waving from across the courtyard. Her smile was huge, her friends gathered around her, just as she'd said.

As soon as you reached her, she pulled you into a hug so tight you could barely breathe.

"It's so great to finally meet you!" she said as she let go.

"You too. Honestly, you're probably the only reason I didn't throw up from anxiety last night."

One of Shannon's friends laughed and nodded. "You're so real for that, girl. But trust me, you'll love it here. I'm Claire, and that's Lizzie."

"Y/N. Nice to meet you," you said with a smile.

The girls chatted with you as you all made your way inside. Thankfully, your schedule wasn't too terrifying, every class had at least one familiar face in it. Shannon, Claire, or Lizzie were always nearby.

When lunch rolled around, you all headed to a table near the rugby field. Shannon had mentioned she wanted to hang out with her boyfriend, Johnny Kavanagh, and it wasn't long before a few of his rugby lads strolled over and plopped down next to you, mid-conversation and completely uninterested in the girls at the table.

"–and I'm telling you," a loud blonde guy was practically shouting, "she ripped the laptop off my bed while I sat there, dick in hand! It was the fucking worst!"

Half the courtyard turned to look.

You hadn't even heard the start of the story, but that last sentence caught you completely off-guard, and a quiet snicker escaped you before you could stop it.

The guy's attention snapped to you. He blinked once, like he hadn't even noticed you were sitting there until just now, and then let his eyes roam over your face. Slowly, a wicked grin stretched across his features.

"Well fuck me," he said, practically purring. "Is it even legal to look that good and laugh at my jokes? 'Cause I'm gonna need a warning next time."

He leaned across the table, eyes twinkling with mischief. "So, what's the plan? Are you free tonight, or should I pencil in our wedding first?"

Your cheeks flushed a shade too warm for comfort. Before you could even think of a reply, Claire shot him a death glare.

"Gibsie, stay the hell away from our new friend. She's not another bird you can screw and ghost, alright? She's our friend."

That... surprised you. You hadn't expected her to say that—hadn't realized you were already being claimed as one of them. It was oddly comforting.

Gibsie just rolled his eyes, undeterred. "How about you let her decide for herself?" He turned back to you and smirked. "Also, do you have a name, or can I call you mine?"

Claire and Lizzie groaned in unison while Shannon was busy catching up with Johnny, not even noticing what had happened.

You scoffed, lips tugging into an involuntary smile as you shook your head. "Y/N. And the answer's no."

Chapter Text

After lunch, you and Lizzie headed off toward the science wing, while Shannon and Claire peeled off in the direction of their math class. You were grateful not to be walking alone, your nerves still lingering under the surface like static.

The corridor smelled faintly of old textbooks and something vaguely metallic. Lizzie walked with a sort of relaxed bounce in her step, swinging her water bottle by the strap as you both entered the lab.

Inside, the sharp scent of cleaning solution clung to the air, and rows of high black-topped lab benches greeted you. You slid into a stool beside Lizzie and set your notebook down, half-hoping you'd somehow get partnered with her by some divine act of mercy.

The teacher walked in with a folder tucked under one arm and a lab coat loosely hanging from his shoulders. "Good afternoon, class," he said, voice brisk. "Today we'll be conducting the carbon dioxide reaction experiment."

A soft murmur of excitement rippled through the room. A few kids leaned in to whisper about vinegar and baking soda like it was some big secret.

"And," the teacher added with a pointed glance at the back row, "due to certain... events that occurred last time, I'll be choosing partners this time. No arguments."

Your gut twisted. Of course.

He began reading out names, matching people off quickly. You kept your fingers crossed under the table, silently begging for Lizzie's name to come after yours. But fate had other plans.

"Y/N and Gerard."

You sighed under your breath, dropping your forehead against your arm for a second before sitting up again. Across the room, Gibsie—Gerard, apparently—threw his arms in the air like he'd just scored a goal.

"YES! Let's goooo!" he declared.

You shook your head, already exhausted by the idea.

As he swaggered over, he called out across the classroom, "Are we in a lab? Because I feel a very strong reaction between us!"

A collective groan followed, along with a few snickers. You couldn't stop the small smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, even if you tried.

"Leave her alone, you gobshite," Lizzie snapped at him, crossing her arms.

"Hey! No language like that in my class," the teacher warned, shooting a glance over his glasses before returning to the whiteboard.

Gibsie slid onto the stool next to you, already grinning like he'd won something. He leaned in just close enough for his cologne, something woody and a little too strong, to hit your nose.

"Hey," he whispered conspiratorially. "Do you have 11 protons? Because you're sodium fine."

You stared straight ahead, unmoved.

His grin only widened. "Tough crowd. Alright then... Are you made of copper and tellurium? Because you're Cu-Te—"

"Gerard Gibson, leave that poor girl alone!" the teacher barked, without turning from the board.

Snickers erupted again around the room, and you caught Lizzie smirking behind her textbook.

Despite everything, the experiment actually went fine. Gibsie, to his credit, didn't screw anything up, although he did spend more time talking than measuring. You ended up doing most of the notes, quietly making sure everything got written down properly while he leaned dangerously close to the vinegar and baking soda, pretending like he was making a bomb.

Throughout the lesson, he fed you at least five more chemistry pickup lines, each one worse than the last. You didn't give him the satisfaction of laughing, but you weren't scowling either. That probably only encouraged him.

By the end of class, you had a decent page of notes and a small headache from suppressing the urge to roll your eyes every ten seconds.

As everyone began packing up, Gibsie glanced at your notebook and blinked.

"We were supposed to write something down?" he asked, tone genuinely surprised.

You sighed and snapped your notebook closed. "Yes. We were."

"Shite," he muttered, digging around his bag before sliding a folded scrap of paper across the bench toward you. "Would you mind...?"

You raised an eyebrow.

"Smooth," you said, taking the paper without unfolding it. He definitely "forgot" to take notes on purpose.

You slung your bag over your shoulder and headed for the door, his number still tucked loosely in your fingers.

---

The drive home was slow and crowded. Traffic always built up around this time, long lines of cars crawling through town like everyone had decided to leave at once. You didn't mind too much—your playlist was good, at least. A couple of Radiohead tracks, some older songs from The Cure. Comfort music.

By the time you pulled into the driveway, your limbs felt heavy. You cut the engine, tossed your bag over your shoulder, and dragged yourself inside.

"Home," you mumbled to no one in particular, keys landing with a soft clatter onto the shelf by the door.

Without much ceremony, you tossed your backpack onto your bedroom floor and made your way into the kitchen. Hunger settled in now that the nerves were fading, so you grabbed something quick, leftover garlic bread, and sat at the counter with your phone in hand.

You scrolled for a bit, checking messages, swiping through the photo Claire had tagged you in from earlier. You looked a little dazed in it, sitting beside Shannon on the bench, a book in your lap. You smiled.

Later that evening, with your stomach somewhat satisfied and the sun casting long shadows through the window, you made your way back upstairs. Your room smelled faintly like lavender from the candle you forgot to blow out the night before.

You reached into your bag for the book you'd packed 'just in case', a worn paperback that had seen better days, and tugged it free. As it fell onto the bed, a folded piece of paper fluttered to the ground.

You paused, then reached down.

It was Gibsie's number.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, running your fingers over the crease in the paper. You hadn't even unfolded it earlier, had just shoved it in your bag and left. You stared at the numbers for a moment, then grabbed your phone and your notebook from earlier.

No message. No emojis. Just a photo of the science notes.

You hit send.

It took about five seconds for your phone to buzz.

Gibsie: Your handwriting must be in cursive because you've got me loopy ;) 

You stared at the message, let out a laugh despite yourself, and dropped your phone onto the pillow.

That was enough pickup lines for one lifetime.

You curled up beside your book, pulling your hoodie sleeves over your hands and letting your eyes wander across the page without really reading. The day had been a whirlwind of nerves, sarcasm, vinegar explosions, and flirtation—but somehow, you weren't dreading tomorrow.

Chapter Text

October

You had begun to settle into life at Tommen over the past month. It wasn't instant, but things were falling into place more smoothly than you expected. Your grades were holding up—solidly average, but respectable—and you'd made a surprising number of friends in a short time. That made navigating the halls easier, the classes less daunting, and the cafeteria just a little less awkward. You'd stopped second-guessing every step, every word, every lunch tray decision. It was becoming routine, and for once, routine felt good.

The only thing you couldn't quite shake was Gibsie.

He was relentless.

Somehow, with almost terrifying consistency, he always had a pickup line locked and loaded. You didn't know where he got them, and frankly, you weren't sure you wanted to. It was hard to believe that someone could see you in the hallway and, without missing a beat, come up with something like, "Do you believe in love at first sight, or should I walk by again?" Or, as he shouted across the pitch one afternoon, "Are you a rugby ball? Because I'd chase you anywhere." And then there was the time he passed you in the corridor and muttered, "I must be a snowflake, because I've fallen for you."

You had no idea how his brain worked, but the sheer dedication was, in its own weird way, almost impressive. If persistence was a sport, Gibsie would've been the school's top athlete.

Now, sitting in math—the final class of the day—you found yourself half-distracted, idly bouncing your foot beneath the desk as the teacher walked around handing out the results from last week's test. The room buzzed with low chatter and the occasional shuffle of paper. You straightened a bit when she reached your desk, and as the page landed in front of you, you caught sight of the red pen scrawled at the top corner.

85%.

A small, satisfied grin tugged at your lips. Not bad at all. The neat little "Well done, Y/N" underlined at the top made your chest warm just a little. You'd worked for it—crammed late into the night, muttering formulas under your breath while brushing your teeth, reviewing problems during lunch break. The number felt earned.

Before you could admire it for more than two seconds, a familiar voice rang out from the side of the room.

"You must've got an A+ in charm, because that smile is dangerously effective."

The class erupted into a chorus of laughs, a few students even clapping lightly at the bold delivery. Heat rose to your cheeks almost immediately. You ducked your head and pretended to flip through your notes, hoping no one would keep looking your way. It didn't help that a few people were still glancing at you and grinning like they were in on some kind of inside joke. You didn't know what bothered you more—his shameless confidence or the fact that it worked so well on everyone else.

The laughter didn't last long, though, because the teacher had made her way to Gibsie's desk and placed his test in front of him with a perfectly arched brow.

"Well, unfortunately for you, Gerard, charm isn't part of the math curriculum, but limits are. Pity, you might've passed something for once."

A collective "oof" echoed from around the room as several students leaned over to sneak a glance at his paper. Gibsie groaned dramatically, tossing his head back and pressing a hand to his chest like he'd just been struck by a spear of betrayal.

"Miss, you wound me," he said, as if personally offended by the existence of numbers.

The teacher merely rolled her eyes and made her way back to the front, setting the rest of the papers on her desk with a thud that silenced the last of the laughter.

"Perhaps instead of trying to flirt your way through math, Gerard, maybe if you asked nicely, Y/N would be willing to tutor you."

That earned a louder reaction—whistles, teasing gasps, and more than one "Oooooh!" Your face turned crimson. You didn't even know where to look. The edge of your desk? The floor? Mars? Anywhere that wasn't the sea of smirks around you.

"I guess I'd be needing a lot of private lessons, then," Gibsie called out smugly.

Without so much as glancing up from the papers in her hands, the teacher replied dryly, "Only if she agrees, and only in the library. I don't need a harassment report on my desk. Class dismissed."

Chairs scraped back from desks as bags zipped and laughter picked up again. You slung your backpack over your shoulder as quickly as you could and made a beeline for the door, not waiting for anyone else. The last thing you wanted was more teasing. You weren't even mad, just mildly mortified. The kind of embarrassment that would come back to you at 2 a.m. when trying to sleep. The kind you'd replay over and over while staring at the ceiling.

You were only a few steps from the exit doors when a hand closed gently around your arm, halting your escape.

"Hey, Y/N, wait up."

You turned your head slowly, already knowing who it was.

He looked unusually sincere, his grin turned down a few notches from its usual brightness. "I really could use tutoring, I'm about to fail math," he said. "If you'd be willing."

You blinked. That... sounded almost genuine.

Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and eyed him carefully. "This is not going to end well," you muttered.

"So... yes?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Fine. But only if you stop with the pickup lines."

His face contorted like you'd just asked him to give up oxygen.

"Oh come on, babe. Don't make me stop entirely. Two a day?"

You gave it a moment, pretending to think it over.

"One."

That was apparently all he needed. His grin returned full force, like sunshine behind storm clouds. "We've got a deal."

He held up his hand for a high five, but you just turned and started walking away, shaking your head as the smile you tried to hide tugged at your lips anyway.

Behind you, he called out, voice cheerful and unbothered as ever, "Text me the details!"

Chapter Text

You put the last of your clothes away in your dresser and looked out the window for the fifth time, checking if a car had pulled up.

You didn’t know why you were so nervous about it. It was just a study session. A two-hour study session in your bedroom, where no guys had ever been inside.

Your room wasn’t even messy, but you still re-fluffed your pillows three times and moved your lamp slightly to the left, then back again, for absolutely no reason. You told yourself it was because you wanted things to look neat, but deep down, you knew it was something else.

You snapped out of your spiral as the doorbell rang. Basically sprinting down the stairs, you almost earned yourself an early death as you skipped a step and had to grab the banister, heart thudding.

Behind the door stood Gibsie.

He looked different in his dark jumper and baggy jeans—casual but still somehow effortless. His blonde hair was messy in the way that made you think he’d just run his hands through it while pacing in the driveway. When he saw you, a grin spread across his face and he opened his mouth like he had a pickup line ready to fire.

“Come in. My room’s upstairs,” you cut in before he could say anything.

He blinked, laughed, and stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “You didn’t even let me flirt first. Cold.”

“Tragic. Truly,” you said, already turning toward the stairs.

He followed you up, quiet for once, though you could hear the subtle bounce in his steps. In your room, he paused in the doorway and took everything in—your bookshelf, posters tacked on the wall, the stack of textbooks on the rug.

“Not what I expected,” he murmured.

You frowned. “What were you expecting?”

He shrugged. “Dunno. More... minimalistic.”

You narrowed your eyes at him and gestured to the spot on the rug. “Sit. We’re starting with limits.”

Gibsie dropped his bag with a dramatic groan and sat cross-legged beside you, tugging a notebook from his folder and fishing a pen from his hoodie pocket.

You opened the textbook and flipped to the chapter. “Alright. Let’s go over the basics first. A limit is basically what a function is approaching as the input gets really close to a certain value.”

“You don’t have to care what the function actually equals at that point—just where it’s heading. Look at this one.” You pointed to the first example. “Limit as x approaches 2 of this expression.”

He leaned in, squinting at it. “Okay. So… I just plug in 2?”

“In this case, yes. Try it.”

He did the calculation under his breath, writing with a lot more force than necessary. “So that’s… 4 plus 3… wait, no, minus 3… so the limit is 1?”

You nodded. “Perfect.”

“Look at me go,” he said, leaning back on his hands. “I’m practically Einstein.”

You gave him a deadpan look. “You found the limit of a linear function.”

“A steep linear function,” he added, smirking.

You rolled your eyes and moved to the next question. “Now this one. Limit as x approaches 3 for this rational expression.”

He looked at it. Then looked at it harder.

Then scratched the back of his head and looked at your bookshelf again. “Is that a candle that smells like vanilla?”

You snapped your fingers near the page. “Focus.”

“I am focusing. My senses are just… heightened in all directions.”

“Do the problem, Gibsie.”

He groaned and put his head in his hands. “Ugh. Okay, okay. So I can’t just plug in 3 because then the denominator is zero, right?”

“Exactly. You’d get undefined. So what do you do?”

He blinked at the page. “Cry?”

You snorted. “Factor it. Try that.”

He stared at the paper. Then drew two parentheses, then paused to squint. Then tapped his pen against his chin.

“Wait… how am I supposed to factor this again? I always mess this part up.”

You leaned over slightly, showing him the work. “It’s a difference of squares. Remember that trick?”

“Right. Right. So this becomes—wait. Okay.” He scribbled it down. “Now cancel the common factors…”

“Good.”

“But then what do I do with the leftover thing?”

“Substitute the x-value. The limit as x approaches 3.”

“Oh!” He lit up, writing again. “So that’s… 3 plus 3… divided by… 1? So 6?”

You smiled. “Exactly.”

“Ha! Look at me!” He fist-pumped, then immediately lay back on the rug with his arms out like a starfish. “I’m a math god.”

You snorted. “You got one question right.”

“Let me have this,” he mumbled into the carpet. “My brain hurts.”

You tapped your pencil against the next question. “We’re doing more.”

He groaned again but sat up, rubbing his face. “Why is math so evil?”

“Because it makes sense,” you said.

“Speak for yourself,” he muttered. “My brain feels like scrambled eggs.”

He got through the next question slower—he kept fidgeting, tapping his pen against his knee, glancing around the room. At one point, he got distracted trying to interpret a post-it note on your bulletin board from across the room.

“What does that say? ‘Buy–’? Buy what?”

“Focus,” you said again, a little more firmly.

He sighed, scribbled on the page, then abruptly said, “Do you think time travel would be a one-way thing or, like, adjustable with settings?”

You stared at him. “Gibsie. Why can’t you concentrate?”

He looked over, and you expected another flirtation, another distraction, but he only hesitated for a beat before saying, “Because you’re so bea–”

You gave him a sharp look.

He glanced down at his hands, twisting the pen between his fingers. “I have ADHD.”

You stilled.

“I’m on meds,” he added quickly. “Usually. But I don’t always take them, ’cause they make me feel… weird. Flat. Like I’m a robot. I only really take them when I have to. Exams. Speeches. Big tests. Days like today…” He shrugged. “I don’t like how quiet my brain gets. It stops feeling like me.”

You didn’t speak right away.

He looked up, gave you a faint, crooked smile. “Sorry. I know it’s annoying.”

“No,” you said quietly. “I'm sorry.”

He blinked.

“I didn’t know that,” you added.

“Most people don’t,” he said, voice a little hoarse now. “I mean, I’m still me. Still Gibsie. Just… more tired when I’m trying to do stuff like this.”

You gave a small nod. “Okay. We’ll go slower. And I won’t snap at you.”

He smiled again, grateful this time, not cheeky. “Thanks.”

So you kept going. Slower this time. You explained more carefully, checking to see if he was still with you. He fidgeted, cracked jokes, got off-track again once or twice, but he kept trying. And somewhere between rationalizing limits and sketching one-sided graphs, he started getting it.

He got one question right on the first try and grinned so wide it made your chest warm. “I did that,” he said proudly.

“You did.”

By the time you reached the end of the section, your candle had burned halfway down and your backs were sore from sitting cross-legged so long.

His phone buzzed three times in a row.

He looked at the screen, winced. “Mam’s blowing up my phone. I better go before she thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”

You both stood, stretching.

As he walked toward your door, he paused and turned slightly. “You know... I meant what I said earlier.”

You raised a brow.

“About you being distractingly beaut–”

“Out.”

He laughed all the way down the stairs.

“Thanks though,” he said as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “For real.”

You smiled. “Anytime.”

He opened the door, turned back just before stepping onto the porch. “Same time next week?”

“Sure,” you said.

And then he was gone.

---

Later, while packing your school bag, you spotted a pen near your bed. You picked it up, chewed cap, familiar ink smudges, and smiled to yourself.

Gibsie’s.

You turned it over in your fingers once… then slid it carefully into the side pocket of your backpack.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

You found it at the bottom of your bag halfway through second period.

Gibsie’s pen.

It was wedged between a crumpled worksheet and a granola bar, the same one he’d been fiddling with the entire time he was supposed to be focusing on math the other day. Classic. You rolled your eyes and tucked it into the front pocket of your backpack. He’d probably make some dumb comment when you gave it back. You could already hear it.

By lunch, you'd nearly forgotten about it, until you spotted him across the cafeteria, moving through the crowd like he owned the place. His hair was a mess, his tie barely hanging on, and his tray full of random food combinations that made you question everything about his taste.

Claire slid onto the bench beside you, raising a brow as she popped open her drink. “So, tutoring Ireland’s favorite distraction artist. Survive it?”

You gave a noncommittal shrug. “Define ‘survive.’”

She snorted. “Did he at least bring a notebook?”

“I don’t think he remembered he owns one,” you said, biting back a smile.

Claire grinned. “Sounds about right.”

Before either of you could say anything else, Gibsie dropped his tray on the table across from yours and flopped down like he’d just run a marathon. “Miss me?”

“No,” you said automatically.

He clutched his chest. “Wounded. Deeply.”

Claire gave him a look. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what all my teachers say.” He picked up a fry, twirling it between his fingers like he was about to make a point. “But I prefer the term... spirited.”

You reached for your backpack, unzipping the front pocket without a word. He was still mid-fry-spin when you tossed the pen across the table. It hit his chest, bounced once, and landed on his tray.

He blinked down at it. “Oh. Look who came crawling back.”

“It didn’t crawl back,” you said. “You left it at my house.”

“Or,” he said, picking it up and twirling it between his fingers, “you got attached.”

You narrowed your eyes. “It was under a pile of paper. I just threw it in my bag and forgot about it.”

Lizzie, who just sat down, leaned in. “Wait, why did you have his pen?”

“She’s tutoring me,” Gibsie said, before you could answer. “It’s very noble of her.”

Claire blinked. 

Johnny slid into the seat beside Gibsie, eyeing the pen. “Heard someone’s getting math help.”

“Math, science, life skills,” Gibsie said. “She’s basically rebuilding me from scratch.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re not a school project.”

“I might be,” he said. “A very complicated one with zero due dates and no clear instructions.”

“You’re not that complicated,” Johnny said. “Just chaotic.”

Claire snorted. “I’m amazed you even remember when your next session is.”

“Next week,” you and Gibsie said at the same time.

He grinned at you. “Look at that. We're already synced up.”

You ignored that and focused on your lunch.

Shannon joined a moment later, sliding into the seat beside Claire. “What did I miss?”

“She’s tutoring Gibsie,” Johnny offered, gesturing vaguely with his sandwich.

Shannon raised an eyebrow. “Voluntarily?”

“Hey,” Gibsie said, offended. “I’m not that bad.”

“No one said you were bad,” Claire said sweetly. “Just... you know. A lot.”

Shannon smirked. “And how’s that going?”

You shrugged. “It’s fine.”

“She’s lying,” Gibsie said, pointing at you with a grape. “She secretly loves it.”

“You spent half the time talking to my ceiling,” you said.

“And that ceiling has character,” he said, popping the grape into his mouth.

Claire looked at you. “You’re a better person than me. I would've thrown the book at him ten minutes in.”

“I duck fast,” Gibsie said. “It’s a gift.”

The conversation drifted into other topics—weekend plans, the science quiz that everyone was dreading, the vending machine that had eaten Shannon’s money again. You kept mostly quiet, half-listening, until Gibsie tapped his pen against the table and leaned slightly toward you.

“So,” he said, voice low, “how’d my pen behave all week?”

You gave him a look. “Like a pen. Sat in my bag. Didn’t speak.”

He grinned. “Bet it missed me.”

You shook your head. “You’re not seriously trying to flirt using a pen.”

“I can work with anything,” he said, smug. “Give me a stapler and five minutes, and I’ll have you blushing.”

Claire gave him a look. “Please don’t.”

“I’m just saying,” he said, glancing back at you. “A pen brought us together. That’s poetic.”

“It didn’t bring us together,” you said. “You forgot it. I returned it. That’s basic cause and effect.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“Talking at lunch?”

“Bonding.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

Gibsie looked dramatically wounded. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Shannon rolled her eyes. “You don’t have one.”

“You’re all so cruel to me,” he said, though he looked entirely too entertained.

The bell rang a minute later, and everyone began gathering their things. You slung your bag over your shoulder and tossed your empty yogurt pot into the nearest bin. As you turned to head out, you felt a nudge at your arm.

Gibsie had caught up, walking just behind you, his tray long forgotten.

“Hey,” he said, tone a little more casual now, “thanks for bringing the pen back.”

You glanced at him. “Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it,” he said. “I like that one.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s just a pen.”

He smirked. “So you were attached.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re the worst.”

"Probably.” He adjusted the strap of his backpack. “But hey... at least now we’ve got matching handwriting. Kinda romantic. Unless you used your own pen.”

You laughed under your breath, more at the sheer ridiculousness of it than anything else.

“See you next week, tutor girl.”

You gave him a wave over your shoulder. “Study hard, chaos boy.”

Chapter Text

"So today I thought we could go over Sine and Cosine graphs, but before we do that I think it's smart if we review the unit circle," you spoke as you opened up your notebook.

You and Gibsie were once again, sitting on your bed, immersed in math.

"Unit Circle? Are you a point on the unit circle? Because you’ve got me going in circles trying to find the right angle to talk to you." Gibsie grinned like the Cheshire cat.

You groaned quietly but decided to ignore what he said, instead you flipped to a clean page in your notebook and drew two circles, each one divided into four neat slices, like cakes, kind of.

“Okay, visual aid time,” you said, holding up your pen. “This one’s for sine.”

Gibsie squinted at it. “We making dessert or doing maths?”

“Both,” you said, grinning. “This is your sine cake. Think of it like this: sine is positive in the first and second quadrants, so...” you wrote a plus in the top right and top left slices, “...and negative in the third and fourth.” You marked a minus in the bottom two.

He nodded, slowly. “Alright, happy cake on top, sad cake on the bottom. I can deal with that.”

“Good. Now cosine.” You circled the second drawing. “This one’s a bit moodier.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered, dragging his pencil across his notebook like it had offended him personally.

“In quadrant one, cosine is positive,” you said, adding a plus to the top right slice. “In quadrant two, it’s negative.” You wrote a minus on the top left. “Then quadrant three: still negative.” You tapped the bottom left and added another minus. “And quadrant four flips back to positive.”

“So... plus, minus, minus, plus?” he asked, writing it out in big block letters.

“Exactly,” you nodded. “Sine: happy top, sad bottom. Cosine: a bit of a rollercoaster.”

Gibsie leaned back in his chair, eyeing the cakes like they might bite him. “These are the most depressing cakes I’ve ever seen.”

You laughed. “Just remember the signs. That’s the whole point.”

He pointed to the first one. “This one’s my ‘good weekend’ cake. This one-” he jabbed at the second, “-this one’s the Sunday night existential crisis cake.”

“Now you’re getting it.”

He smirked. “So if I pass this maths exam, it’s because of emotional pastry. Good to know.”

You flipped to a fresh page and wrote out:

f(x) = a*sin(b(x − c)) + d

“Alright,” you said, tapping your pen beneath the equation. “This is the general form of a sine function. Cosine looks the same, just with ‘cos’ instead.”

Gibsie leaned closer, frowning at the letters like they’d personally offended him. “There are too many letters in this thing.”

“I know,” you said with a small smile. “But each one has a job. Let’s go through them.”

You circled the a. “This one is the amplitude. It controls how tall or short the wave is. Think of it as how dramatic the ups and downs are.”

He nodded slowly. “Okay. So bigger a, taller waves.”

“Exactly. Now this,” you pointed at the b, “affects the period of the wave. The formula for period is 2π divided by b. So the bigger the b, the more squished the wave is.”

“So... higher b means more waves in the same space?”

“Yup.”

He looked slightly horrified. “Who invented this?”

“No idea,” you said, chuckling. “Okay, next: c. That’s the horizontal shift, or phase shift. If it’s positive, the wave moves to the right. If it’s negative, to the left.”

Gibsie blinked. “So it’s like showing up late to the wave party?”

“Basically, yeah.” You underlined c. “Last one, d. That’s the vertical shift. It moves the whole wave up or down, depending on the sign.”

“So if d is 3, the wave gets lifted?”

“Three units up, exactly.”

He stared at the equation for a moment, lips pursed. “So a is height, b is squish, c is side shuffle, and d is lift.”

You laughed. “Exactly.”

“I’m writing that down,” he said, grabbing his notebook.

"You should."

You watched as he scribbled,
a = height
b = squish
c = side shuffle
d = lift

---

You clicked the cap back onto your pen and slid your notebook toward him.

“Alright. One more and then we’re done for today.”

Gibsie gave you a flat look. “You said that three pages ago.”

“That was practice. This one’s application,” you said, fighting a smile. “We’re going to graph this one together. Look,” you pointed to where you’d written it out:
f(x) = –3·sin(2x) + 1

“Nope. I’m out. That’s way too many things.”

“Come on,” you said, nudging his shoulder. “This is the last one. I’ll do it with you.”

He dropped his head dramatically into his hands. “Why does the sine function hate me? What did I ever do to it?”

“You were born,” you deadpanned.

“That’s cold,” he said, lifting his head to squint at the equation. “Okay, so... that negative three in front... that’s the amplitude?”

“Almost. The amplitude is just three. The negative tells you it reflects across the x-axis. So it’ll start by going down instead of up.”

“Why would it do that?” he said, frowning. “Down is sad.”

You laughed softly. “That’s just how sine waves work. Okay, now look at the two next to x. That’s b, which changes the period. Do you remember the rule?”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling like the answer was up there. “Ugh... two pi divided by b?”

“Exactly,” you said. “So that’s 2π over 2. What’s that?”

“π,” he muttered, like the word personally offended him. “So the wave finishes a full cycle every π units.”

“Correct.” You handed him your ruler and lightly drew the x-axis across the page. “Okay, now let’s get our x-values. Start at zero and go to π, split it into four parts.”

“That’s... zero, π/4, π/2, 3π/4, and π?” he guessed, then blinked in surprise when you nodded.

“See? You do know this.”

“I’m too tired to feel proud,” he mumbled, dropping the ruler dramatically. “Can’t we just talk or something instead? I’m not built for this math lifestyle.”

You glanced at the half-drawn axis and raised a brow. “Tell you what. You finish this one with me, just plot the points and sketch the wave, and then we’ll take a break and talk. Deal?”

He narrowed his eyes. “About anything?”

“Fine. Anything.”

“Fine.” He sighed deeply, like he was agreeing to something truly painful. “Let’s do it.”

Together, you filled in the x-values along the axis, then helped him figure out the y-values based on the amplitude and vertical shift. Slowly, the upside-down sine wave took shape, starting at 1, dipping to –2, back to 1, then up to 4, and returning again. It was shaky and uneven, but it was there.

When he lifted his pen and saw the completed wave, he blinked. “Wait... did I actually do it?”

“You actually did.”

He looked way too pleased with himself. “You know, if math was just drawing funky little rollercoasters, I’d be all in.”

You laughed. “Funky little rollercoasters is exactly what it is.”

He sat back, tapping his pen against his knee. “Alright, tutor girl. I held up my end. Now we talk. Let me ask you stuff. Get to know you. Deeply. Emotionally. Like a real bonding moment.”

You laughed, tucking your hair behind your ear. “Why do I feel like your version of ‘deeply emotional’ is asking what my favorite cereal is?”

“Because it is,” he said, grinning. “Important stuff. Crucial intel.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine. Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”

“Solid choice,” he said, nodding with approval. “Sweet but with a little bite. Just like you.”

You gave him a flat look. “See? This is why no one takes you seriously.”

“That hurt,” he said, dramatically clutching his chest. “Here I am, being vulnerable, and you're out here with the emotional gut punches.”

“You’ll live.”

He grinned. “You say that like it’s not a miracle I’ve made it this far.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “So are you going to ask me real questions or keep trying to flirt your way into another study session?”

He leaned forward on his elbows, watching you with a lazy sort of curiosity. “What do you do when you’re not solving math problems and silently judging me?”

“I don’t silently judge you.”

“That’s a lie, and you know it.”

You bit back a smile. “I read.”

He chuckled. “Of course you do! You read, you tutor, you draw weird cake circles to explain trig. What don’t you do?”

“I don’t let cocky rugby players distract me during review sessions,” you said pointedly.

“I feel like that was directed at me specifically.”

“It was.”

He leaned back again, one brow raised. “Okay, okay. My turn.”

“You just had a turn.”

“Yeah, but that was the warm-up. I’m digging deeper now.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes playfully. “Fine. What’s your question, journalist Gibsie?”

He hesitated for a second, then looked at you a little more seriously than before. “Why’d you agree to tutor me?”

The question caught you off guard.

You blinked. “Because the teacher suggested it. And because... I figured you could actually learn it. If you focused.”

He tilted his head. “That it?”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “And maybe I thought you weren’t just the guy who cracks jokes and throws himself into walls for laughs.”

Something flickered behind his eyes—surprise, maybe. He sat up straighter, his voice softer this time. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “Don’t let it go to your head. Clearly, I was wrong.”

“Too late,” he said, voice light again. “It’s already inflating my ego.”

“Great,” you muttered.

He smiled, but it was gentler now. “I like talking to you, you know.”

You blinked, heart stuttering just a little.

“Not like-” He caught himself and cleared his throat. “I just mean, you’re easy to talk to. Not in a weird way.”

“Mmhmm,” you said, eyeing him. “So not in a weird way, but just weird enough to make me suspicious.”

“Exactly,” he said, flashing you a grin. “Suspicious in a charming, roguishly handsome sort of way.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned over to close your notebook. “And on that note, I think we’re done for today.”

Chapter Text

Standing at your locker, your mind wandered to your last study session with Gibsie. You had thought about how he always managed to make you smile, how unruly his blonde hair is, and how the freckles on his face come to show when the sun shines at him-

No. No no no. This is not happening.

He has influenced you. His cheesy pickup lines. This cannot happen. You can't let him get to you.

"If you were a triangle, you'd be acute one."

Speak of the devil... Gibsie slammed your locker shut before you could even turn around and leaned against it, standing way too close to you. Close enough for his cologne to mess with your brain.

"Go away, Gibs. Shouldn't you be in class?"

"No one will notice when I'm gone. We could go make out instead, darling, because if kisses were snowflakes, I'd send you a blizzard."

You blinked. You blushed. You actually blushed. No. Absolutely not. This is not happening. You refused to entertain the thought of Gerard Gibson and anything romantic in the same universe.

"I have history. You better go before someone notices you're gone and you get detention."

But of course he just grinned at you, like he always did. That infuriating smirk that made it hard to remember how to spell your own name.

"Aw, come on. Don't pretend you don't miss me already."

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with more force than necessary, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a smile. You could still feel his eyes on you as you walked away, and worse, you didn't hate it.

---

Later at lunch break, things didn't get much better. You found out that both Claire and Lizzie had caught something from each other and didn't come to school. And Shannon was too busy kissing Johnny's face off at their usual table, so that left you to fend for yourself.

Which, of course, meant sitting next to Gibsie. Again.

"If beauty were time, you'd be eternity."

You didn't even bother looking up from your sandwich. You simply took a bite and chewed as slowly as possible, trying to pretend he wasn't right there grinning like an idiot.

"Oh come on. If I were a cat, I'd spend all nine lives with you."

You snorted into your sandwich before you could stop yourself. Gibsie gasped like you'd just declared your undying love.

"A laugh? I'll take that as a yes."

You looked up finally, eyebrows raised. "Yes to what?"

"To our date, obviously. Come on, darling, I know you like me. Just go on one date with me," he said, flicking the cap of his water bottle open like he hadn't just dropped a bomb.

You paused, purely for the drama of it. "...What would I get out of it?"

He froze. He wasn't expecting you to actually entertain it, even for a second. His smile widened slowly, like a kid realizing there's still cake left.

"Well," he leaned in, voice dropping to that low teasing tone he loved, "you would get some good dick-"

You choked on your sandwich and your face flushed so red it was almost comical. You could practically hear your own heartbeat echoing in your ears.

"You're disgusting."

He laughed, loud and shameless, like your embarrassment was the best part of his day. You could tell he wasn't serious, well, not entirely. But still. You had heard things. Girls whispered about how Gibsie flirted with anything that breathed, how he never stayed interested in anyone longer than a week. Except it's been two months since you moved schools.

"Don't think I'm that easy, Gerard."

"Never said you were, sweetheart. That's why I like you." He tilted his head at you. "You keep making me work for it. I'm sweating over here."

You rolled your eyes again and took another bite of your sandwich, refusing to look at him. He didn't need to know your cheeks were still hot. Or that you weren't hating the attention. That was not information he needed.

"You'll cave eventually," he said confidently. "You're already thinking about it. Admit it."

"You really have a high opinion of yourself, don't you?"

"Not my fault I'm right."

You turned to him, finally meeting his eyes. They were dancing with amusement, as usual, like everything was a game.

"Has any of those lines ever worked?"

He grinned again, stretching back in his chair like he had all the time in the world. "Nope. But you're the only one I keep using them on."

You blinked. And okay, maybe that got to you a little. Maybe your stomach did this weird little twist thing. But you pushed past it.

"Too bad none of them are good enough to win me over."

Gibsie leaned forward again, elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hand. He looked at you like he was studying you, really seeing you. It made you squirm in your seat.

"I'll find one that does. You just wait."

"Good luck with that."

"I don't need luck, darling. I've got charm."

You shook your head, half-laughing despite yourself. "Still not going on a date with you."

"Not yet."

You hated how smug he sounded. 

"Don't you have a class to fail or something?"

"I'd rather sit here and be rejected by you for the fiftieth time."

"Glad I'm your hobby."

He smiled at you again, softer this time, and it was that look, the quiet one, without all the joking, that really messed with your head. But you shook it off.

You weren't saying yes. 

Not ever.

Probably.

Hopefully?

Chapter Text

Gibsie yanked his muddy jersey over his head and threw it on top of his half-unzipped kit bag. The locker room still smelled like victory and sweat, the usual mix after a win, but he didn't feel the usual rush.

"I'm so doomed, mate," he muttered, dropping onto the bench like all the weight of the world had landed on his shoulders.

Johnny glanced over as he peeled the tape off his wrist. "What are you talking about?"

"Y/N," Gibsie replied flatly.

Johnny snorted. "You're not serious, are you? You actually like her?"

Gibsie just stared at the floor for a second before responding. "Have you seen her? She's gorgeous. But she keeps denying my date invitations."

"Maybe 'cause you ask her out like it's a joke every single time," Johnny said, grinning as he tugged his hoodie over his head. "Come on, Gibs, you're always saying weird crap to her. If someone said half that stuff to me, I'd run the other way too."

"It's called charm," Gibsie said half-heartedly, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"Mate, it's not charm if she looks like she's contemplating murder every time you speak."

Gibsie rolled his eyes. "I'm serious though. She's not just a laugh anymore. She's... I don't know. Different."

Johnny stopped, watching him. "You really have such deep feelings for her?"

Gibsie nodded slowly, running a hand through his damp hair. "She's not like anyone else. I can't stop thinking about her, man. And the worst part? I've got nothing. She just... doesn't bite. Doesn't fall for the stuff that always works."

Johnny leaned back against the locker, arms crossed. "So stop trying to make it work like that. You're not sixteen anymore, Gibs. If you like her, show her something real."

"I don't know how to do that. Every time I try to say something genuine, it comes out like a bad joke," Gibsie admitted. "Like, I see her in the hallway and I mean to say something cool or normal-then my brain's just like, 'Quick! Say something about her eyes being better than your ma's roast dinner!'"

Johnny laughed. "You'd actually say that?"

"I fear so."

"No wonder she looked like she wanted to dropkick you."

Gibsie dropped his face into his hands. "I'm a lost cause."

"No, you're just acting like one," Johnny said. "I mean, have you ever actually asked her something about herself that wasn't some setup for a punchline?"

Gibsie stayed quiet.

"Exactly," Johnny muttered. "Maybe she thinks you're not serious. And fair enough, mate. You flirt with the cafeteria lady."

"She gives me extra chips."

"You told her you'd name your first child after her."

Gibsie shrugged. "Maureen's a solid name."

Johnny stared at him. "Focus, Gibs. I'm trying to help you."

"I know, I know." Gibsie sighed and leaned back, the cool metal of the locker hitting his shoulders. "It's just... I don't know what I'd do if she never said yes. It's stupid. I don't even have her and it feels like I'm already losing her."

Johnny blinked at that. For once, he didn't have a joke.

"She's amazing," Gibsie continued, a little quieter now. "She's so smart and kind of scary but in a good way? Like, she makes you want to be on your best behaviour, you know? Even when she's just sitting there eating a sandwich."

"She does seem to bring out a different side of you," Johnny said, surprisingly thoughtful. "You haven't flirted with Claire in weeks."

"I'm growing," Gibsie said dramatically, placing a hand on his chest.

Johnny rolled his eyes. "Barely. But look, if you're really serious, maybe I can talk to Shannon. She's close with Y/N. I could drop your name, see what the vibe is."

Gibsie raised an eyebrow. "You'd do that?"

"Sure," Johnny said. "But only if you swear to quit the pickup lines for a while. At least when you're around her. Seriously. No more, 'Are you a magician?' crap."

"Even the pizza one?"

Johnny gave him a look.

"Alright, alright," Gibsie held up his hands in surrender. "No pickup lines. I swear. Just... be normal?"

"That's the idea," Johnny said. "Try talking to her. Ask about her weekend. Her classes. Anything that doesn't involve you metaphorically proposing marriage in the hallway."

Gibsie looked thoughtful for a second. "She did mention liking books. She has a lot of them in her room."

"There you go. Ask about her favourites."

"But what if I say something dumb again?"

"You will," Johnny said. "But maybe this time, she'll see you're trying."

Gibsie let out a breath. "Thanks, man."

Johnny stood, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "Don't thank me yet. If Shannon tells me she's into some guy from drama club, I'm leaving you to suffer."

"Ruthless," Gibsie muttered, getting to his feet.

"You'll live. Maybe."

They stepped out into the hallway together, the buzz of post-game chatter fading behind them. The fluorescent lights made everything feel too bright, too normal-like nothing big had just happened.

But Gibsie felt it. Something had shifted.

"I think I'll walk her to class," he said, mostly to himself.

Johnny side-eyed him. "Quietly. Like a normal person."

Gibsie nodded. "Right. No magician jokes. No marriage proposals. Just... me. But less annoying."

"Sounds like a miracle."

"Shut up."

As they reached the doors, Gibsie paused. "Do you think she'd ever go for a guy like me? Like, really?"

Johnny looked at him for a long second, then gave a small shrug. "You've got a good heart, Gibs. If she sees that-yeah. I think she might."

Gibsie smiled at that, just a little.

Maybe Johnny was right, he thought to himself. Maybe if he stopped trying so hard to be funny all the time, stopped treating it like a game, she'd see he meant it. That he wasn't just messing around. He didn't even know when it had started to feel real, only that now it did. Every time she looked at him like he was just another distraction, it stung more than he'd ever admit.

He wanted her to see past the noise. Past the dumb jokes and all the stupid things he said to cover up how nervous he actually felt. He wanted her to see him.

And maybe, if he didn't screw this up, she finally would.

Chapter Text

You sat in the school library, nestled into a familiar couch near the back windows. It was lunchtime, but lately, the buzz of the cafeteria had started to feel more like a headache than a break. You were used to sitting with your friends near the windows or on the benches outside when the sun was out, laughing and eating whatever you'd managed to shove into your backpack that morning. But something had changed. Maybe it was the constant noise, or maybe it was just that lately you'd found more comfort in quiet pages than in loud chatter.

You'd started coming here more often, retreating to the soft stillness of the library during lunch. It was never completely silent, there were always a few students typing on laptops, flipping through textbooks, or whispering as they worked together, but it was calm. Calm enough to let you breathe, and more importantly, read.

You sighed quietly to yourself as you settled into your usual corner spot on the worn, navy blue couch, pulling your knees up slightly and wrapping an arm around your favorite book. It was one of those books that always made you feel like the world was still soft, no matter how chaotic school life could be. You opened to the first page, letting your eyes drift to the first sentence, eager to lose yourself in the world waiting there for you.

But you didn't get the chance.

The couch dipped next to you suddenly, pulling your weight slightly in that direction, and before you even turned to look, a voice you knew all too well filled the quiet around you.

"I'm not an electrician, but I can light up your day."

You groaned, not loudly, but enough to make your irritation known. It was the kind of groan you'd perfected lately; the one that meant "I don't hate you, but please stop talking." You slowly closed your book and glanced over to find the usual culprit: tousled blond hair, mischievous grin, and eyes too bright to take seriously.

"Gibsie," you muttered. "Why are you here?"

He didn't seem the least bit put off by your tone. In fact, he leaned in just a little closer and grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. "Why are you hiding here?" he asked instead, ignoring your question entirely.

You gave him a look, then sighed again. "It's quiet," you said simply, hugging your book against your chest like it could shield you from further nonsense.

He glanced at the cover curiously, head tilting just a little. Something about his gaze wasn't just teasing this time—it was softer, more thoughtful. "You like reading, huh?" he said. "Haven't seen you without a book in your hand since you first came here."

You let out a quiet chuckle, unsure of what to make of his tone. "I guess so," you answered.

He turned more fully toward you, clearly interested now. "Any favorites?"

You blinked, not expecting him to follow up. "I don't have a specific favorite book," you replied honestly. "There are too many good ones to choose from."

He leaned back with a dramatic huff. "Okay then. Choose ten."

Your eyebrows raised at the challenge, and you couldn't help but smile, just a little. "Alright. Heartless, the Shatter Me series, the Caraval series, Once Upon a Broken Heart series, You and Me at the End of the World, Jane Eyre, Letters to a Young Poet, White Nights, The Folk of the Air series, and the Naturals series."

His mouth dropped open in mock betrayal. "Hey! You cheated with the series!"

You smirked. "No, I didn't. You didn't say I couldn't."

He shook his head, laughing. "Fair enough. Why are you so into books anyway? Not that I'm judging. I think it's kinda cool."

You shrugged. "Why are you so interested all of a sudden? I bet you haven't read a book since fifth grade."

He grinned again but then, surprisingly, his expression softened. "You're not wrong," he said, a little quieter. "Reading's never really been easy for me. I've got dyslexia. Makes all the words jump around."

Your teasing faded instantly. "I didn't know that," you said, surprised by how sincere his voice had become.

He gave a half-smile. "It's alright. Not many people do. Dyslexia's pretty common with ADHD too, apparently. Didn't surprise me when I got that diagnosis too."

You nodded slowly, the pieces clicking together now—his energy, his impulsiveness, the way he always seemed to struggle with written work. "Wow," you said quietly, not because you didn't know what else to say, but because it was the only word that felt small enough to hold the weight of what he'd shared.

He nudged your shoulder lightly. "Don't go all serious on me now," he said, his grin returning. "I brought you a good one today."

You looked at him warily. "A good what?"

"A good pickup line."

You rolled your eyes.

He sat up straighter, hand on his heart. "Come on. You, me, one date. If it's awful, I'll stop bothering you. If it's not... well, I'll still keep bothering you, just with flowers."

You groaned, grabbing your book and softly pressing it against your forehead. "Please stop," you muttered, though there was the slightest tug of a smile at the corners of your mouth.

Without answering, you shoved the book into your bag, stood up, and started to walk away.

"Y/N!" he called after you, but you didn't turn around. You just shook your head, laughing under your breath as you made your way toward the exit.

"You didn't say no!" he shouted behind you, loud enough for half the library to hear. Your cheeks flushed instantly as you pushed open the door to the corridor, trying not to look back at the chaos you'd just escaped.

Behind you, a few annoyed students shushed him, while the librarian gave him a tired glare over her glasses.

But you kept walking, the blush on your cheeks still remaining.

Chapter Text

The room smelled faintly of popcorn and strawberry body spray, and the soft hum of a Taylor Swift song was playing off Claire's phone in the background. The girls had claimed your bedroom as their official weekend hangout spot again. Pillows were scattered across the bed, half-eaten snacks lay on the rug and their backpacks were somewhere in the corner.

"Okay, okay," Shannon said, dramatically tossing a gummy bear into her mouth, "So you all remember how Johnny and I snuck away after rugby last week, right?"

Claire groaned, rolling her eyes. "Don't tell me you're gonna relive that moment again."

Shannon didn't even blink. She climbed up on her knees in the middle of your bed like she was about to put on a show. "I'm just saying, the chemistry was insane. Like, off-the-charts. We barely made it to his room before-"

"No," Lizzie warned, reaching for a pillow like she might weaponize it. "Please don't scar us."

But Shannon was already turning to Claire, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Come here, I need a volunteer."

Claire blinked, backing up slightly. "Me? Why me?"

"Because you're the only one who won't fight me on it," Shannon said sweetly. Before Claire could protest again, Shannon grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to the middle of the mattress. "Okay, picture this: Johnny leans in, hands on my hips like this-" She placed her hands firmly on Claire's sides, bouncing them slightly. Claire squeaked.

"Oh my God," Claire said, face red, trying not to laugh but also very much trying to wriggle away. "I did not sign up for this!"

"You totally did," Shannon replied without mercy. "Anyway-then he says, in this really low voice, 'You're so hot when you wear my hoodie,' and I'm like, 'Take it off me then,' and then boom, like this, " She mock-tackled Claire down onto the mattress, dramatically flopping over her.

Screams. Absolute chaos.

Claire howled in embarrassment, flailing as Claire and you erupted in laughter so hard it physically hurt.

"Shannon, get off her!" you wheezed between breaths.

Shannon rolled off dramatically, grinning as she lay back on the bed like she'd just finished a stage performance. "You're welcome for the reenactment."

Claire sat up, hair tousled and cheeks flushed. "I feel violated."

"You're never allowed to complain about PDA again," you added.

Shannon only shrugged, smug. "What can I say? I'm a storyteller."

The room filled with giggles and the rustling of snack wrappers as everyone tried to catch their breath. Then, suddenly, all eyes turned to you.

"What about you, Y/N?" Shannon asked, shooting you a sly look. "How's it going with Gibsie?"

You raised your brows and gave a nonchalant shrug, though you could already feel your cheeks warming. "Just pickup lines. Over and over again. He's relentless. Although... the other day he actually asked me out. Like, properly. Said something like, 'You, me, a date.' Real subtle."

Lizzie let out a snort and nearly dropped her drink. "He's down bad for you."

"He's a total flirt," Claire added knowingly, brushing some crumbs off her lap. "He flirts with everyone. I've seen it."

Shannon sat up again, her voice softer now. "Yeah, but not like this. I don't think he's looked at anyone else since you came to Tommen. It's kind of obvious. It's like you enchanted him or something."

You sighed and leaned back against the headboard, hugging a pillow to your chest. Your fingers absentmindedly picked at a loose thread.

"I don't know, guys," you admitted, your voice quieter now. "Maybe I should just go out with him. He's not that bad. And when we study together... he's actually kind of sweet sometimes."

Claire's eyes widened, and she gasped, pointing a dramatic finger in your direction. "You have a thing for him! No way!"

You immediately hurled your pillow at her, hitting her square in the shoulder.

"No I don't!" you protested, but your voice cracked a little, which didn't help your case.

Shannon giggled and wiggled her eyebrows. "Yes you do. Come on, we know that look. You've got that dreamy, faraway thing going on."

"I do not," you replied, half hiding your face behind the pillow you had retrieved again. "You guys are imagining things."

Lizzie leaned forward. "Wait, hold on. During study sessions, you said he's sweet? How exactly? What does he do?"

You shrugged, trying to sound casual, but your words betrayed the smile tugging at your lips. "I don't know. He listens. He actually pays attention. And he asked about my favorite books the other day. Like, genuinely. He said he has dyslexia and that reading's hard for him, but he wanted to know what I liked."

All three girls looked at you like you had just told them a fairytale.

"No way," Claire breathed. "He's trying. Like, actually trying."

"That's huge," Lizzie added. "For Gibsie? That's practically a love letter."

"I'm telling you," Shannon said, pulling her legs up and hugging her knees. "He's got it bad. And if you're feeling even a little bit the same... maybe it's worth giving him a shot."

You stayed quiet for a few seconds, chewing on the inside of your cheek. Your mind was already playing back all the moments with Gibsie over the last couple of weeks. The way he'd somehow made you laugh when you were stressed over math homework. How he had called out across the library just to tease you when you hadn't said no to his offer.

"Yeah," you finally said, drawing your knees up to your chest. "Maybe."

Shannon squealed and reached over to grab your hand. "This is gonna be so fun. First dates are the best. You have to tell us everything if it happens."

You rolled your eyes playfully. "It's not happening yet. I haven't said yes."

"Yeah," Claire said, tossing a piece of popcorn in your direction. "But you haven't said no either. That's progress."

You laughed, shaking your head. "You guys are the worst."

"No," Lizzie said, leaning back on her elbows. "We're the best. You're welcome."

The room slowly calmed again, everyone settling back into their spots with satisfied smiles. The playlist switched to a softer song, and the hum of girl talk began to drift toward other topics-new nail polish colors, weekend plans, and who wore what to the last school event.

But your mind wasn't quite following anymore.

It was still circling back to a certain boy with messy blond hair, freckles that showed up in the  sunlight, and eyes that always seemed to know when you were about to roll yours at him.