You were in your bedroom, trying to complete a horrible amount of paperwork, when your phone rang. Not at all sorry for a temporary excuse to stop work for a moment, you quickly snatched up the phone and answered without even checking the caller ID.

"Hello?"

"(Y/N)? Are you home?"

"François!" you yelled in surprise, instantly recognizing your friend (and crush)'s voice. You sat bolt upright, accidentally scattering half of your papers across the floor. You swore, jumped down from the bed to gather them up, and awkwardly answered François with your head tilted at a weird angle in order to keep the phone pressed against your shoulder, "Sorry, sorry! Ah, yeah, I'm home. Why?"

"You're not answering your door," François mumbled. "I've been out here for . . . what, fifteen minutes?"

"Oh, for Pete's sake - just come in!" you said, rolling your eyes. "The door's open."

". . ."

François hung up, and, after about a minute of picking up papers in increasingly frustrated silence, you heard François's familiar footsteps enter the room somewhere behind you.

"You shouldn't leave your house unlocked," was all he said as he sat down on your bed.

You tossed a glare over your shoulder as you fished a renegade page out from behind the desk. Seriously, how had it gotten there of all places?!

"What are you saying, that I couldn't kick some stupid burglar's butt if I needed to?" you snapped.

"I'm saying that it's not safe. What's with you?" he muttered.

Your stress seemed to explode inside your brain, and you turned away from him to hide the frustrated tears suddenly threatening to burst forth. "What's with me is that I have a stupid boss-" you furiously chucked your newly-gathered papers aside "-a stupid amount of work to do-" you flung your pen down before you became tempted to snap it "-a stupid, oblivious crush-" you cast him a black look "-and everything is pointless!"

You smacked your forehead against the window and stood, angry tears running down your cheeks and hating the beautiful day outside and half-wishing everything would just burn to the ground so you wouldn't have to deal with it. You heard François get up from the bed and approach you, but you didn't look at him. You didn't want to; in your present stressed state of mind, you'd probably either slap him or kiss him . . . or both. You weren't sure which one you wanted to do more at the moment.

"I used to think that," he said after a moment's silence.

You wiped your eyes on the back of your sleeve. "You . . . what?"

"I used to think that everything was pointless," he repeated quietly, his tone somewhat depressed. "Then I fell in love."

Yes, the urge was quickly turning in favour of slap him. "François, you don't believe in love," you said coldly.

"I didn't," he corrected gloomily. "Then I met you. And even though you've got a crush on someone else, I can't help it - you've pretty much become the point of my life."

Your brain seemed to be working in slow motion. You . . . wait, did he just say he loved you? The first smile of the day turned the corners of your mouth, and you turned to face him.

"François?" you asked, taking a step closer to him. "I think I might love you too."

His eyes widened slightly with surprise, but you kissed him before he could react.