#oppisitesattract

⋆｡♡˚⊹

You noticed her...her!

....during an Environmental Club meeting. One of the many random clubs you signed. She was quiet, leaning back in her chair like she didn’t even want to be there. You remembered her from a gen-ed class your freshman year. A little grungy, always in the same vintage brown jacket and boots.

Kind of stoner-y.

Kind of hot.

Definitely didn’t talk much. But she always turned in perfect papers, lowkey smart. The kind of smart that didn’t feel showy all.

The-- "I didn't study for this." Then gets an A+ and a Nobel Prize.--kind of smart

You tried to talk to her, sat next to her and made a joke. She barely looked at you.

Disinterested.

Still, you were determined. You’d seen her ace math and science. You needed help. And when you noticed her leaving the meeting early, you followed her out of the building. Awkwardly, not creepily (you hoped), trying to catch up.

She caught you following behind her after a block and spun around. "Are you following me?"

You froze, then tried to act nonchalant. "Umm… yeah...Kinda."

She squinted. "Okay. Why?"

"I need a tutor."

She tilted her head. "In what? Stalking?"

"No! Haha" you laughed, flustered, gripping on your navy messanger bag that was overly decorated. "In math. Please. I’m dying."

There was a pause. She looked at you from head to toe, then shrugged. "Sure. Why not."

And now here you are. Tutoring Session #4: nail polish drying, textbook open, brain melting, sitting across from her in the library.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #1

The first session was quiet...awkward.

You showed up five minutes early because you’re trying to be impressive, because first impressions matter….even if it was just for a tutoring thing (with a girl you stalked for 15 minutes)

You always dressed your best. How you felt! So you dressed like you meant business; head to toe ACADEMIA. Down to the fake reading glasses perched on your nose.

You found her already slouched in a chair at the far end of the table, wired earbuds in, jacket draped on the back alongside her bag, hoodie half zipped. She look like just woke up from a nap she didn't want to take.

She looks up and down when you sit.

"Did you come from a job interview at a private school?"

You ignore the comment with a bright smile and slide your notes out of your bag. "'Kay! So, I brought some practice problems, buutt...I seriously don't get any of this so if I sound dumb---"

"You won't," she interrupts, pulling one earbud out. "unless you are dumb, but that's not really my problem."

You look at her, she doesn't laugh. You think she's joking, but its hard to tell.

Nonetheless, once you get into the work, it moves fast. She's focused, maybe surprisingly patient...also a bit sarcastic. She's explains things in short, clear ways, she's sharp. You write things down while sneaking glances at her knuckles, her chipped nail polish, in the state of her nails. The faded tattoos peeking out from under her sleeve.

It's not the worst hour of your life, but it's also not fun.

You thank her at the end . She nods, already putting her earbuds back in.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #2

The night before you were going through the stack of magazines you got at a Thrift Shop in the city. Tutorials and instructions of how to dress and do your make up like you just came out of Tokyo.

You're walking in the library with confidence.

Flipping your Burgundy colored very expensive wig, blown out to perfection. Platform shoes clicking across the library tiles.

She sees you and actually does a double take, blinking like she doesn't recognize you.

Her brows furrowed, "This..." she points at you. "...is the same girl who cosplayed 'academia student' last time?"

"It wasn't cosplay," you say, sweetly. "It was just the look of the day."

"What's the look for today?" She asks in sarcasm. "Monster High Barbie doll?" Her eyes were fixated on your knee high socks and bejeweled pockets of your shorts.

"No, today's look is 'Agejo-Gyaru." You did a 360. "I was going through this magazine and Pinterest..." You could tell she didn't really care so you just sat down.

She leans back in her chair, clearly annoyed before the study session even starts. "Maybe if you focused on math the way you focus on outfits, we wouldn't be here."

You pause. Her tone is dry, casual, but it stings.

You make a soft sound, smiling through it. "Fashion is a state of mind. What I wear doesn't determine my intelligence."

She hums, raising her eyebrows up like she doesn't believe you. "Mm"

You try not to let it ruin your mood. You do the work, answer questions. You mess up and ask her to explain again, and she does; but you can tell her tone.

She thinks she's better than you. You feel it in the way she taps her pencil impatiently. The way she sighs when you get something wrong.

You leave that day with your heels stomping louder than usual, and your heart a little hurt.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #3

You show up determined to keep the peace.

You're tired of her rolling her eyes, tired of her little sarcastic-unwanted comments that feel less like teasing and more like judgement.

So, you go soft, polite, vintage. A little more you but toned down.

You greet her quietly. She nods...like always.

As you work, you try again. "Hey, I just....I wanna say thanks. You're good at this, you know. Like explaining things, I mean"

She doesn't look up. "Mmhmm."

You smile, then don't, then smile again. Why is she even helping you if she didn't like you? Like sure, she WAS actually tutoring you for free. But was it worth all the attitude?

You push past it, "You're like...crazy smart."

"Nah, not that smart," she says with a shrug, not meeting your eyes. "Compared to someone who thinks Brown Lip Liner is a studying tool...maybe."

Your smile completely dropped, you stopped. Stare at her and she doesn't seem to give a fuck. Just scribbles something down on the lines of your worksheet, still not looking at you.

Something inside you tightens. You stack your notes, quietly. Close your notebook, softly.

She finally looks up when you stand. "Where you going?"

You slide your bag over your shoulder. "I'll figure it out myself."

"Wait--" she starts, but you're already walking towards the stairs. You wasted a perfectly good 70s inspired

She on the other hand, sits there for a while after you're gone. Not working, nor chilling. Just staring at your empty chair.

"Fuck." She huffs.

She feels it, the guilt, the realization; running her fingers through her hair.

You weren't just some airhead, you were actually trying. Trying to study, get your grades up. Trying to be kind to her. And she was kind of a bitch.

⋆｡♡˚⊹ Session #4

The club meeting's almost over when you feel someone slide into the seat next to you. You don't have to look, the faint smell of weed clinging to her jacket is a dead giveaway.

You keep doodling on the corner of your notebook.

"Hey," she says low, like she's not sure you'll even answer.

You hum in response, not caring.

"I, uh..." she pauses, her fingers tapping the edge of the desk. "Wanted to say sorry...for last time."

You glance at her, she's not looking at you. Her gaze is fixed on the whiteboard across the room like the apology is physically painful to say.

So, you nod once, a bit unsure. "'Kay."

"I was being an ass."

You smile a little at that, only half bitter. "You were."

There's a second of silence. She shifts in her seat, clears her throat. "Would it be...uh cool if we tried again? Like...start over with the whole...tutoring?"

You don't answer immediately. You glance down at your Apple- necklace brushing your collarbone. Your mood wasn't soft, your outfit was though.

You speak slowly. "You don't even like me...you hate me or something..."

"I don't hate you," she blurts out hella quickly. Then adds quieter, "I never did."

You stare at her for a second longer, searching for sarcasm, but it's not there. Discomfort only, seems like she doesn't know how to be honest without choking on it.

You nod gently, "Okay."

You meet at the same table, you don't say much at first. She doesn't either.

This time you don't pretend to be 'super-ultra-studious.' Your notebook is open, but your hands are busy with something else, a tiny brush, a red nail polish bottle. You're painting your nails while she reads out loud from the textbook.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

She watches you put your nail polish away. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can multitask,” you say calmly, the kit already in your bag.

She snorts a little, shaking her head, but there’s no bitterness or attitude in her voice. “Of course you can.”

You glance at her, she’s not frowning, neither is she judging. She just stares at your nails, then you. Kind of amused.

“Thanks…For apologizing.” You gently blow on your nails to finish the drying process. Your voice soft.

She shrugs, “Yea, I shouldn’t have said that shit. You’re not stupid. I was just being…”

“Mean?” You input.

“Yeah haha, that.” She chuckles.

A second of silence.

“I like your bracelets.” She mutters, it’s awkward but it’s something. Something better than the last sessions.

“What’s the uh, look of the day?”

You smile, a real small one. “Thank you. Today’s look is Apple-core.”

She nods, then slides your worksheet back towards you, “Alright, Apple Dumpling. Let’s see if you remember what Cosine is.”

You groan, dramatically. Smirking at her, impressed she would even be aware of the character.

Despite your unmotivated feelings, your heart feels lighter than it has, since the days you’ve started.

✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚✧˚ ༘

You start meeting at the library after Environmental Club (So twice a week)

She stopped being so bitchy and you stopped trying so hard to win her over. Things felt more even now. Not warm or cozy, but comfortable in that slowly kind of way.

You don't always talk when you meet up. Sometimes she's already there when you walk in, half asleep, sweater zipped up with the hood drawn halfway over her face. Sometimes you get there first and spread your little pencil case, snacks, highlighter, and lip gloss like it's a sleepover.

You still dress up. Every time. She never comments anymore (well not as much.) Doesn't say much, but she notices. You catch her glancing when she thinks you're not paying attention. Watches you settle in like it's mandatory, your drink, lip balm, notebook with more doodles than notes in the margins.

You either arrive 5 minutes early or 5 minutes later, no in between. You always forget a pencil despite having a whole case. And every time she sighs and hands you one of hers, it's starting to sound more fond than annoyed.

Studying is weirdly kind of working. You're not acing the subject, not yet. But you're not crying, either. Every time she walks you through a formula or a theory, something about the way she breaks it down just makes sense. Her voice is calm, steady, a little bore; never condescending anymore.

"Ok," she says. "Next one. Simplify this expression."

You squint at the paper. "I JUST did the last one."

"That was two minutes ago."

You slouch dramatically. "My brain is hungry, I need a break. This isn't fair."

"It's mathematics, not a hostage situation."

You sigh and pull out a granola bar out your bag. She rolls her eyes but waits while you unwrap it and take two unnecessarily slow bites.

"You get distracted every ten seconds."

"I don't...its every twenty seconds but who's counting?" You put the bar down and sit up.

She stares at you blankly.

"...What?"

"I just realized," she says slowly, "you look like you're about to demand a duel on a cobblestone street."

You beam. "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"It felt like one."

She rolls her eyes, yet when you catch her smirking a little behind her drink, your stomach does something it absolutely should not do during a tutoring session.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

Mid-terms were approaching. "Sooner than you think," said with a terrifying smile by your club president, and now, here you are: textbooks cracked open, caffeinated drinks between you, and an unnecessary pile of highlighters spilling across the table.

The pressure's on, this time you don't feel hopeless or alone.

Your brain has been scattered the past week. A few sessions has turned into morning ones to help you more.

You walk into the library on a Tuesday, slightly out of breath, cardigan slipping off your shoulders, holding a banana and a Red Bull. You drop into your seat--the one across from her and whisper, "We're gonna ace this shit."

She gives you a look. "That's breakfast?"

"It's all I could grab."

"Amazing food for the brain," she deadpans. "Potassium and adrenaline."

You grin, wiggle your brows. "What can I say? I am fueled by vibes."

She rolls her eyes, slides your workbook over. "Then let's turn those vibes into Vector Components."

And you try. You really do. You forget to reapply lip balm. You write notes in messy caps instead of cursive. You ask questions without being afraid of sounding dumb.

And when you actually teach her a trick you figured out on your own, she looks at you like she's seeing you fully for the first time. Almost smiling she says, "Look at you, a real math girl now."

You smirk, leaning back in your chair. "Genius and I have amazing fashion sense."

"You're still dramatic."

"Obviously."

She nudges your shoulder with her pen. "But you're doing better. Way better."

You smile down at your notes. The doodles and scribbles of hearts in the corner look less silly now.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

The library closes at midnight, but you both have already claimed the farthest table on the second floor, the one with the outlet that barely works and the window that overlooks the quad, wash on that warm, hazy glow from the campus lamps. The sun had set hours ago, and now the only light on your table comes from her laptop screen and your star-shaped desk lamp you insisted on brining.

It's your last study session before the big exam. You've both been here since five.

Her jacket is thrown over the back of her chair, hair tied up now: messy and half-falling out. You're in some matching-vintage-Juicy Couture-tracksuit, the sweater hanging off your elbows.

Your most comfortable look she has seen you in.

You've gone through flashcards, review packets, cheat sheets, past quizzes, even made a fake mini quiz for yourself. You're now sitting cross-legged in your chair, sipping a Matcha iced drink, that's mostly melted, while she explains a concept for the second - third - hell even fifth time.

"You're overthinking it," she points to your notes. "You're not supposed to plug x into both equations. Just isolate it here then substitute."

You stare at the page, then at her. "'Kay, but like when I did that last time the answer came out to a literal decimal disaster."

She snorts, low. "That's 'cause you forgot to distribute the negative, pretty genius."

You blink and amusingly raise an eyebrow, "Did you just call me Pretty Genius? Pretty AND Genius?"

She looks up from your notes, trying to act casual. "Maybe"

The lamp flickers slightly, you both ignore it.

You go back to work. She yawns and stretches, your eyes trail the movements--just for a second. You're too focused now, too determined. You NEED to pass this exam. You feel it in your bones.

You're about to ask another question when you realize she's staring at you...again.

You tilt your head, "What?"

She hesitates, fingers still tapping her pencil. Then: "You're kinda...surprising."

You squint, "I'm hoping that was a compliment."

"It is," she says quickly. "Just...not how I thought this would go."

You shift a little in your seat, softening. "How did you think this would go?"

"I dunno," her voice is quieter now, her postures less guarded. "I almost said no when you asked me to tutor you. I figured you were just another..." She stops, chewing the inside of her cheek, "One of those girls."

"One of what girls?"

"Y'know," she mumbles. "The ones who'd laugh if I like drop something. Or whisper behind my back in class. The ones who...looked like you."

You're quiet. She continues, slower. "Back in High School...girls like that were the worst. Perfect hair, perfect outfits, perfect...everything. Mean and straight and shallow. Scary."

You giggle. "Scary?"

She gives you a small smile. "A little. I don't know, you're just...Pretty. Loud. Confident. And people like me usually don't get along with people like you."

You glance down at your bracelets and then back at her. "But we do?"

She nods, just once. "Yeah, you're nothing like them. And I judged you too quickly." She sighs. "You're sweet. And actually funny. Kind. Smart too...even if you forget to distribute."

You feel your cheeks warm. "I don't think anyone's ever called me smart and meant it...apart from old teachers."

"I mean it."

Your heart does a tiny flip. You offer her a soft smile and after a second, she returns it. You tap your pen against your notebook and say, quietly, "So...friends?"

She rolls her eyes but reaches across the table and pinky swears without hesitation.

"Friends," she says.

You grin and link your pinky with hers. "Even if I forget pencils and call everything 'so cute'?"

She chuckles. "Even then."

"Even if you still wear that same jacket every other day, and pretend you're not secretly a sweetheart?"

She sighs dramatically. "Alright, let's not push it."

You both laugh.

"You ever just, like...do nothing?" she asks.

You glance at her, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"Like not plan out a whole look. Not go to five clubs. Or wear earrings that could probably stab a man."

"You saying you wanna see me in sweats?"

"No, not saying that," she says, and there's the faintest flush in her cheeks. "Just wonderin'."

You stretch your arms over your head, spine popping. "No, I like dressing up. It makes me feel like myself."

She nods, as if she's still trying to understand you.

You are a puzzle she can't solve with equations

You bite your lip. "You ever not try to act like you don't care about anything?"

Her eyes flick up to yours, she pauses--then smiles, small and real. "Ok, fair point."

And then, you study. For real. Like, deep focus. You quiz her back. She lets you explain a concept to her like she’s the student for once. She doesn’t correct you once. You work until your brain is buzzing and your shoulders ache from sitting so long.

By the time you finally part ways, after a long, sleepy hug outside the library steps and a promise to text her as soon as the test is over...you feel okay. Nervous, but ready.

It takes three business days for your grade to post.

You refresh the page twelve times. Maybe more. You bite off your new polish coat and accidentally close the tab once, just from pure jittery nerves. The number stares back at you:

Trigonometry 101 : 85%

Eighty. Five. Percent!

You nearly cry when the grade pops up on your student portal. You take a screenshot, send it to her. All caps--Ten exclamation points.

You take her to this tiny diner off campus, nothing fancy, just cozy, with string lights and plastic menus and the best milkshakes on Earth.

She says you're over dressed when you show up in a strapless summery dress with a flower clip. You say just jealous of your outfit since she's wearing jeans and a clean tee. "First time you're wearing something clean."

Over dinner, she teases you about the panic attacks you had during study sessions, and you roast her for the way she still types with two fingers like a dad. You both eat too much and laugh until your stomachs hurt.

"You passed," she says, lifting her milkshake toward you.

You clink your against it. You grin, wide and proud. "We've passed."

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling too.

You're opposites, sunshine with too much energy and sarcastic know it all. Accessories matched to perfection and chipped nail polish. Sparkly pen toppers and blunt pencils.

And it works.

Somewhere between the fries and the check, you catch her staring. Not annoyed, not surprised..… but soft.

She smiles when she realizes you noticed. You don’t say anything. You just smile back.

⋆｡♡˚⊹

You can talk anyone into anything if you smile wide enough, and flutter your lashes. That’s how you found yourself paired with her again for the Environmental Club’s Semester-End Volunteer Campaign.

It’s a sunny Saturday, warm enough for sunburn, breezy enough to wear sleeves. The kind of weather that makes people smile with their eyes closed, like the whole sky was in a good moods and iced lemonades.

You’re wearing denim overalls today, faded and soft, a tank top underneath. Less lace, less bows: more farmer's market. More grounded and comfortable. The kind of outfit that makes you want to plant something or buy a jar of honey or jam.

You catch a few people glancing at you as you walk across the community center lawn, clipboard in one hand and a little woven tote on your shoulder, but you’re used to it by now. It’s not the outfit...they’re looking because you’re you.

She’s already there, sitting on the low wall that borders the garden, chewing gum and squinting at her phone. Her hair is pulled back today, little wisps sticking to her cheeks, and she’s wearing cargo pants and a graphic tee.

She looks up when she sees you, and for once, she doesn’t have a smart ass comment.

"You look like you belong in a peach farm," she says instead. Looking at the red bandana tied loosely in your hair.

"That's the look of the day," you smile, doing one of your famous 360s.

She hops off the wall, brushing her hands on her thighs. "Where’s your partner?"

"Ditched him. Forced a trade. You’re mine now."

She blinks. "You bullied your way into working with me?"

You shrug, innocent. "I’m just..... persuasive." She scoffs under her breath but doesn’t look mad. If anything, there’s a hint of something else behind her gaze. Something soft, warm.

You’ve been volunteering for this local green initiative through Environmental Club, door-to-door, awareness stuff, passing out flyers, helping run booths at farmers markets and donation drives.

Today’s task is a small campaign to collect signatures for a community compost expansion project.

She grumbles at first, but she sticks with you. You charm the couples and families; she talks to the skeptics. It's smoother than you expected. At one point, you both end up sitting in the shade of a big tree near the sidewalk, sharing a lemonade you bought from a little stand run by a kid with glitter all over their face.

"So," you say, watching the breeze flutter the edges of a leafs above you. "I think I’m ready."

She raises an eyebrow. "For what? Making compost for vegetables?"

You laugh, "The final exam."

"Oh. That."

You nod, grinning. "I’m gonna pass. I can feel it in my bones. And the best part is....after this? No more math classes. Ever again!"

"Never?"

"Nope! Never, it's my last required one. I double checked my degree audit three times." You lean back on your elbows, face tilted toward the dappled light through the branches.

"I’ve got an 88 average going in. I just need a passing score and I’ll be done. Done done. No more math. No more numbers...unless I go to grad school."

You open one eye and glance over at her. "I won’t need tutoring anymore."

She goes quiet. Not heavy quiet, just… thoughtful. She takes the cup from you and drinks, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

"So that’s it then?" she says. "We stop meeting up after this?"

You tilt your head. "What do you mean?"

"The study dates," she mutters. "Well....not dates. You know. Whatever they were. Tutoring. Library lunches. Snacks and glamming up and me being forced to accept compliments."

You smirk. "Aw. Gonna miss me?"

She shrugs, but there’s a little upward curve tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I mean… yeah. Kinda."

"I mean unless you are offering to tutor me in English Monarchy next semester?"

She sits up straighter, looking suddenly nervous. You watch her chest rise and fall, a little quicker than normal, like she’s thinking something through before she says it.

"I, uh… I like hanging out with you," she says finally, avoiding your gaze. "More than I thought I would. Like, not just the studying part. The you part."

Your heart skips a beat, in that quiet, tight way. "Oh," you say, a little breathless. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

She rubs the back of her neck, then laughs once: soft and self-deprecating. "God, I suck at this. I was gonna text you, but I figured if I messed it up in person at least you could throw your drink at me or something."

You smile, warmth spreading under your skin like sun.

"Mess what up?"

She finally looks at you.

"I wanna take you out," she says. "Like… out out. Like on-a date. There’s this really stupid arcade downtown that has DDR and Skee Ball and those pizza that taste amazing after ten p.m. Thought it’d be fun."

You stare at her for a second, stunned. Shes so nervous it’s cute.

You smile, slow and wide and stupid. "Are you asking me on a date to play air hockey and eat greasy pizza?"

"I’m asking you on a date to kick your ass in Skee ball," she corrects, her smirk returning. "But yea."

You pretend to think about it for dramatic effect. Cross your legs, tilt your head, hum to yourself. She groans beside you.

"Oh my god, just say no if it’s a no--"

"It’s a yes," you cut in.

She stops. "What?"

You nudge her with your shoulder. "I said yes. You smart-ass."

She grins. Like, really grins. It’s rare, and it’s a little crooked, and it makes something in your chest twist. "Cool," she says. "Okay. Cool."

You lean your head on her shoulder.

"I’m gonna beat you at Skee ball," you say.

"You wish."

And just like that, you’re not just a volunteer duo, or an unlikely study pair, or even just friends

⋆｡♡˚⊹

It's Friday night, two days after your Final Exam. You don't know what you expected from an arcade date, maybe something corny or awkward. But this isn't that, it's easy, exciting, bright, like stepping into a different universe made entirely of neon lights, blasting music, and the smell of greasy pizza crust.

You wore jean, old ones, the type to be loose around your calfs--tight around your thighs- and perfect around your waist. A brown hat that matches your jacket with fur on the collar, and your purse. You look amazing in the camisole as well...you just pray the jeans are long and flare enough to not show the old Converses you had on.

The second she saw you waiting outside, she whistled. "Didn't realize I was dating a Bratz Doll."

You smiled and flipped your hair, "Didn't realize you knew what a Bratz doll was."

"Cousins," she muttered, holding the door open for you. "Growing up they were obsessed...so was i--not gonna lie. You kinda remind me of Yasmin."

You tried not to blush.

Inside, the arcade is loud and glowing, nostalgic. There are little kids running around, older teens clumped around machines, and couples tucked into old racing games with flashing screens and plastic wheels. The two of you exchange your cash for a fat handful of token and immediately lose half of them trying to beat each other at 'who can knock down the most clowns.'

She wins...barely. But you win at air hockey, "Fast hands baby," you brag. She makes a scene when you score the winning point.

Skee-Ball? You win.

"That's cheating," she says, watching your ball smoothly arc into the 50 Points hole again.

You glance back, lashes fluttering. "No, it's natural talent."

By the time you make it to the claw machines, you’re both breathless and sticky with soda syrup and cheap perfume. You’re holding a shared slice of pizza, one hand each, taking bites between giggles.

Two cups of slushies, hers is blue raspberry, yours is cherry lime. Your knees knock under the table. Her fingers are stained red from the slushie, and she keeps stealing glances at you like she can’t believe this is real.

You’ve already won one rubber bracelet, a sticky hand toy, and a plush keychain shaped like a frog. She’s wearing it on a belt loop now, very seriously.

You point at the machine. "Get me the pink bunny."

She narrows her eyes. "You think I got arcade god powers or something?"

"I’ve seen your hands." You say it too smoothly, and she pauses, then cocks her head with the slowest smile you’ve ever seen.

"Yea?"

You nod, innocent but not really. "Yeah."

She drops a token in. The claw shakes to life, clunky and unpredictable, but she lines it up with precision. On the third try, it finally grips a floppy ear and drags the bunny up and out. You squeal. She bows like it’s a victory parade.

"Hand it over," you say, already reaching.

She doesn’t. Instead, she holds it above your head. "Kiss first."

You blink. "Ah s'cuse me?"

She shrugs. "Fair’s fair. I got a you bunny. You owe me one tiny, non-legally-binding kiss."

You take a step forward, face tilted up, smiling with your eyes half lidded.

"Like this?" you ask, lips barely an inch from hers. She freezes for half a heartbeat, and then you snatch the bunny right out of her hand and spin away laughing.

"You’re evil," she groans.

"You like it," you shoot back. And she does. God, she does.

The night winds down with a final stop at the photo booth tucked in the back corner, near the DDR machine. It’s barely big enough for two people and smells like cherry chapstick and dust. You feed in your last few quarters, and the countdown begins on the screen.

She hesitates for the first photo. You smile wide.

Second was more silly from your end.

Third photo you gave her a side hug pressing your cheeks against hers.

In the last photo, she leans in and kisses your cheek. You're not ready for it, you blink in the final flash, heart pounding.

When the strip prints out, it’s awkward and perfect. The first photo is just cute. The second is silly. The third was sweet. And the last is you, shocked and flustered, grinning like an idiot. She pockets one copy. You keep the other.

Outside, waiting for your ride, the night's finally quiet. She stands a little too close to you, hands in her pockets, the tips of her sneakers grazing yours. You're not sure who leans in first, but it's natural...like breathing.

Her lips brush yours, gently, softly. She pulls back all smiley and shy. "Best tutoring gig I've ever had."

You bump her should. "Best date I've ever been on."

And you mean it.

⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚⊹ ࣪ ˖ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ₊ ⊹✧˚ ༘ ⋆｡♡˚

Part 2: “I can see your friends, they don’t like me.”