You were sitting on the couch, reading a book, and your best friend and crush, also known as Wales, was sitting beside you.

"(Y/N)?" he asked so suddenly that you jumped. "Oh . . . sorry about that."

"It's fine," you sighed, bookmarking your page and closing the book. "What is it?"

"Do you like me?" he asked.

"Everyone likes you, Wales," you said, shrugging. "And you're my best friend. Of course I do."

"No." He moved closer to you. "Do you like me?"

"O-oh." You felt heat rise to your cheeks. No way could you tell him the truth - but you also couldn't lie; there was always that infinitesimal chance that he liked you back, right? So what the freak were you supposed to do?!

He raised an eyebrow and leaned closer than anyone who wasn't France would ever do in a casual conversation. "You're not answering me, (Y/N)."

"Why?" you blurted out, deciding to go for the offensive. "Do you like me?"

"Yes."

"Wait, what?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I like you. Now answer my question."

You wrapped your arms around his chest and smiled sweetly. "I like you too. Now, judging by your very French proximity, I presume you want to kiss me?"

He flashed you a quick grin and did just that; you eagerly kissed him back.