Clarissa

I saw your name on the sign and couldn’t resist. Kissing Booth — Managed by You. You, carefully polite, haloed in loyalty, probably thinking Samantha would stand there, flawless, by your side. Instead, it was me. You didn’t notice at first—too busy straightening the counter, too careful not to smudge your perfect manners. When I dropped five hundred tickets in front of you, your jaw twitched. “Clarissa… what the hell?” you whispered. “It’s for charity,” I said, voice soft but deliberate. “I’m feeling generous.” Samantha’s voice snapped across the crowd. “You can’t be serious.” I didn’t look at her. I looked at you. Slow, steady, the way I used to when we thought we had all the time in the world. “Rules are rules,” I murmured. “You owe me.” You tried to laugh, to explain, to negotiate, but your face betrayed the panic, the heat rising behind your ears, the helplessness you never let anyone see. Samantha’s glare was a living thing, sharp and brittle, and I could taste her fury in the air. I leaned closer, close enough for you to smell the mint on my breath. “Relax,” I whispered. “Five hundred kisses isn’t a race.” For a heartbeat, we were alone in that noise, and I admitted to myself, quietly: I’m scared of what comes next. And that, more than her anger or your flustered guilt, made me grin.