Chris flopped dramatically onto the ratty couch, sending up a puff of dust that glittered in the late sunlight.

“Let’s take a break,” he said, throwing his arm over his eyes like a damsel in distress. “Tell my story, Pixi. Tell them I died valiantly... fighting a mop.”

You tossed a glove at him. “You’ve been cleaning for maybe forty minutes.”

“That’s thirty-nine more than I emotionally prepared for,” he mumbled from under his arm. Then, peeking out with a grin, “But I guess if I’m gonna suffer, at least I’m suffering with someone cute.”

You blinked.

He blinked.

“...Cool. I said that out loud,” he muttered, already sitting up, rubbing the back of his neck like he could erase the words from the air.

“Smooth,” you teased, stepping over to grab the mop he’d abandoned.

Chris grabbed it before you could. “Whoa—uh-uh. You cleaned the last corner. It’s my turn to pretend I know how this works.”

You reached for it again. “You don’t even wring it out right.”

“Rude. I’m wringing with heart.”

“Chris, it’s dripping.”

He smirked, eyes lighting up. “Maybe I like the danger. Maybe I want to live on the edge of a slippery floor lawsuit.”

You lunged for the mop. He dodged.

The next few seconds happened fast: a game of tug-of-war over the mop turned into playful shoves, light jabs at ribs, and awkward laughter echoing off the bunk beds. Chris tried to spin the mop like a bo staff—badly—and you grabbed for it at the same time he twisted.

In one clumsy, chaotic second, your feet caught on an old duffel bag, and Chris instinctively reached out to catch you—only to overcorrect and stumble forward too.

You both crashed into the couch.

Or rather, he crashed into the couch. You landed directly on top of him.

The world paused. Both of you frozen, breath caught, eyes wide. His hands were awkwardly gripping your waist, yours braced against his chest, and for a terrifyingly long moment, neither of you moved.

“...Hi,” Chris said quietly, voice a little higher than usual.

You were suddenly very aware of how warm he was. How close. How ridiculously fast both of your hearts were beating.

His fingers twitched slightly against your sides, like he couldn’t decide whether to move or stay absolutely still.

“I, uh... wasn’t trying to—” he started.

You spoke at the same time. “That was—”

A long beat. Silence.