If you asked me yesterday morning how I felt about Scott Kellerman, I'd have said that he was a friend. An awesome friend that makes me laugh and feel safe; one that I can count on, rain or shine (literally).

If you ask me today, I might need a minute to figure out an answer – maybe more. As it stands, I've been trying to come up with my answer for the entirety of the 14 minutes I've been awake.

When Scott and I first woke up, I'd say we played off any awkwardness pretty well. I told him he snores like an English bulldog (even though he doesn't), and he fired back that I kicked him at least 16 times whilst we slept. I know for a fact I didn't – we slept on separate mattresses a good few metres apart – but the jokes made things feel semi-normal; like we were still us, and last night hadn't changed a thing.

Except, I think it did.

At one point, before Scott headed upstairs to check on his mum, he gave me that crooked smile of his that I'd seen on him a hundred times before, only this time, it felt different. The fact that I felt anything at all threw me. There was a gentle tug in my chest, all warm and delicate like flitting butterfly wings, and under his gaze I almost felt... shy. What the hell is going on?

As soon as Scott disappears up the stairs and I'm left on my own for a moment, last night's memories start seeping in, bit by blush-inspiring bit.

We kissed.

Scott. And. I. Kissed.

I'd never admit it out loud, but I'd been imagining what it would be like to kiss Scott all night. From the moment he'd gotten all philosophical about life and love and our friends and the future, I'd just wanted to get closer to him, you know? In a sappy sort of way, I didn't know if I wanted to kiss him, or just feel all the comfort and kindness I saw when I looked at him.

But when we'd made our little plan and sat cross-legged across from each other with our eyes closed, it wasn't his comfort or his kindness pressed tenderly against my lips. It was him melting against me, making me feel high. Boy-scented, soft-stubbled him. And I'd be lying through my teeth if I said I wasn't dying for another moment, another feeling, as perfect as his lips on mine.

But, we agreed not to talk about it again after today. I was the one who came up with the goddamn terms.

That doesn't stop the goose bumps from prickling up on my skin at the thought of last night, though. It's like my own body is taunting me with my memories of the pure fucking electric feeling of Scott's strong hands cupping my face; and the feral sound that came from deep in his throat every time my tongue brushed against just the right place; and the insatiable, intoxicating feeling of needing more of his gaze, his kiss, his tou-

"Hey."

His voice seems to come out of thin air, and I jump, chucking the remote control in my hand halfway across the living room.

Scott looks at me, amused, as he re-enters and takes his seat on the makeshift mattress bed across from mine.

"Jumpy, are we?" He teases.

I wish I had something witty to say in return. Instead, all I can focus on is how good he looks with his school shirt barely buttoned up, and his chocolate-y hair that's so imperfectly tousled that it's somehow perfect. Oh my God, what's wrong with me?

"Uh, I guess so, heh. Um, is your mum awake yet?"

"Yeah, yeah, she's up. Yours too. They're in your mum's room, chatting away like it's the morning after a rager. It's kind of adorable that Mum's finally made a friend," he says, his mouth curving into an involuntary sort of smile.

"See?" I smile. "So it was a good idea to let her have my room after all."

"It certainly was," Scott says, and maybe his voice is only gruff because it's the first thing in the morning, and maybe he only goes quiet after he says it because he's got nothing else to say, but when we lock eyes, I know we're both thinking about the same thing.

Half of me wants him to say something out loud, and prove that I'm not crazy for not being able to get his lips out of my mind. But things are different at daybreak. Before long, his smirking stare falls and he shifts about, clears his throat and swiftly changes the subject.

"Uh, did you manage to pick a movie?"

"Movie?"

"Yeah, before I went upstairs, you said you were gonna pick a movie we could watch at breakfast. Unless you don't want to anymore? Fuck, sorry, that was a bit presumptuous. I can just go if you're not up for it?"

I laugh at him and how we've fallen into the awkward niceties of semi-strangers just because we snogged.

"Shut the fuck up," I snort. "We're watching the movie. I just got distracted and couldn't pick one."

We both turn to the Netflix homepage and my heart skips a beat at how relieved he looks that we're still hanging out.

"The Paradox of Choice, huh?" He frowns in thought.

"Exactly."

"What about that Homecoming documentary?" He suggests. "The one about Beyoncé's Coachella performance?"

"So bloody good. I've seen it though."

He clicks his tongue. "Damn. Same. Okay, what about..."

"Wait. Scott, you've already seen it?"

"Mhm."

"Then why'd you suggest it?"

"'Cause it's a really good doc."

Doc. Oh my God, he's such a film student.

"...Yeah, but you'd have to sit through, like, two hours of something you've already seen."

"Sure, but I thought you'd like it, since I saw a lot of Beyoncé on your playlist when we wer- when I, um, saw your playlist."

'When we were kissing' is what he was going to say. His near slip of the tongue makes him palm his neck with pale red cheeks, and now neither of us needs to say it, it's right at the front of both of our minds. I grin at the boy with the chocolate hair and handsome face because I kissed him, and he's blushing, and fuck, he would watch something he'd already seen just because he thinks I'd like it.

"So, other movie options..." He laughs awkwardly. He brings one of his hands to the light shadow of stubble on his chin, it makes his broad shoulders strain against the white school shirt he's still in, crumpled with the sleeves tugged up to the elbows. His eyebrows are furrowed, like he's deep in the valleys of thought, but there's a shy hint of a smile playing at his rich lips. Fuck butterflies, my stomach's in constrictor knots.

"Movie options," I repeat, but I can't think of any. My mind's too busy....

Scott's hands cupping my face as he kissed me.

My tongue running softly across his lips.

Teasing each other with desperate eyes and heavy breaths and words that we didn't need to say aloud.

"Um, my phone." I blurt suddenly, cutting off my imagination before things get dangerous. Scott looks at me for clarification.

"I mean, I think I've got a list of some good recommendations on my phone. We could look through those?"

He gives me a gesture of approval, and I pat around on the mattress in search of said phone; but, after a fruitless minute, I let out a groan.

"Fuck, where did I leave it?"

Scott scratches the top of his head.

"I think I saw it in the kitchen, maybe? After we read the Dublin emails, we went to get beers, and I don't remember seeing mine after that either."

"Oh, course. I'll go get them. Do you want water, or something?" I ask before I leave."

"What a good hostess you are," Scott coos, closing his eyes as he snuggles into his bedsheets. "I'd love some water, thanks. Chilled, if you wouldn't mind, with three ice cubes. Cheers, doll."

"Ow!" He laughs, his eyes opening abruptly when I grab the pillow from beneath his head.

"Say please, Kellerman."

"Oh, so you'll let me die of thirst if I don't say please? That hardly seems very hostly."

With my lips drawn into the most mischievous smirk I can muster, I hold the pillow above his head, threatening a thump.

"Say. Please."

There's an amused glint in his eye. His gaze darts up at the pillow, then down at me, then back and forth again, and before I can register what's going on, Scott leaps across from his mattress to mine, his hands wild as they tickle my sides, forcing squeals of laughter out of me.

"Sc-Scott!" I pant. I'm as hysterical as I am breathless as I flail in his arms. "Piss off!"

He cocks a wicked brow as his hands scamper faster and faster around my waist, laughing as he tortures me.

"Scott!"

"Just say please."

Wanker!

"Come on, Evangeline..." he teases, slowing down. I'm trapped beneath him with his knees either side of me, and I almost wonder if the mood is shifting... until his hands creep up my body and begin the tickling attack all over again, under my arms this time, sending me back into fits of giggling laughter.

"One little word!" He grins. "Pl...?"

"Fuck, okay, okay!" I wheeze. "Please! Please stop!"

The moment I'm able to catch my fucking breath, Scott bursts into laughter, practically doubled over holding his stomach.

"You fucking suck, you know that?"

Now he can hardly get his words out, and I glare at him, red-faced, until he finally settles, raising his hands in surrender.

"Alright," he chuckles. "I am sorry, but I just didn't have you pegged for the ticklish type, and holy shit was I wrong."

I hurl the pillow at his head, just like I'd threatened to do, but it doesn't wipe the smug amusement from his face.

I huff as I stand and turn on my heels. "I'm not getting you any water, dickhead."

There's no self-satisfied comeback this time. When I glance back, Scott's chest is heaving on the comedown from his wild laughter, and he stares at me with a daring smile, as though he knows that I loved it secretly, his hands one me, even if that wasn't exactly how I'd pictured it.

I did.

I flip him off once more time for good measure, and the sound of his chuckle rings through the hallway as I leave. Just friends or not, Scott feels familiar in a way that little else does, and I can't help but grin once I'm alone.

Scott's phone and mine are almost identical. Sleek; silver. Only, he keeps his pristine in a clear phone case with his Oyster card in the back of it, whilst mine is naked and covered in tiny nicks and scratches.

Note to self: get a phone case.

Of course, my nosiness gets the best of me when I spot our phones side by side on the breakfast counter. His lights up with a family photo when I tap the home button, and I smile: his mum and his sister grace the little lock screen, with glad rags and faces. Looking closer, I can make out Scott's suited figure, humbly reflected in his sister's designer sunglasses as he snaps the photo. God, that's cute.

I almost leave the kitchen; almost tuck the phone away in my hoodie pocket without seeing the text message that's just arrived. But I spot it.

Bonnie W: Morning handsome <33

Reading Bonnie's name, an image of her and her shiny raven hair pop into my head, along with the simmering feeling that maybe I should put the phone away, before I see something I'll wish I hadn't. But I don't put the phone down. Obviously.

The second message comes through promptly, and no words follow the photo, but no words need to. Presumably, I'm not the intended audience, but my jaw drops. Holy shit. She's perfect. With ruffled hair and an anchored stare, Bonnie's snapped an effortless sultry-eyed mirror selfie, and her deep pink, puckered lips are the first thing your eyes are drawn to. Or third, depending on what you're into. She's shirtless, as far as I can tell. The photo is cropped just above anything explicit, but her perfect arms, and perfect upper chest are left in full view, and the rest, I suppose, she's left to the lucky recipient's imagination. Scott's imagination.

And with that realisation, the simmering feeling sinks – into the pit of my stomach, then right down onto the floor before me.

Of course he's talking to Bonnie W, and probably, Sara B and C, and half of the rest of the year group. He's Scott Kellerman: the school's resident 18-year-old six foot one, emotionally intelligent, easy-on-the-eyes dreamboat. What the fuck was I thinking? Kissing him as part of a bloody experiment doesn't suddenly give me bagsy.

I switch off the phone. I laugh, even though I feel like a complete fucking fool. Then, I traipse back to the living room, my slippers groaning as they drag across the wood-tiled floor.

"Kellerman. Phone." I hardly give him a chance to react before I lob the phone in his direction. It narrowly misses his face, but Scott catches it with a quick and able arm.

"Oops."

I sit on the sofa, instead of beside him on the mattressed floor, to avoid embarrassing myself further with any more quasi-flirting, but his mood doesn't appear to change. He's still got that teasing glint in his eye, and he lifts one eyebrow playfully when I sit further away.

He's just a guy being a guy, I have to remind myself. Worse still, he's an 18-year-old guy. They can kiss you and tickle you and eye you up and down until you're giddy, but it doesn't mean they're into you and only you, and don't have perfect girls sending them perfect, sexy selfies. We're just friends, and that's fine.

Right?

"Jesus," he laughs, "you almost took my head clean off there. Is this about the tickling? 'Cause I'm not sorry, but I'll apologise again if you need me too."

I'm pretending to be too absorbed in scrolling through my movie list, and he seems to buy it, turning to his phone too. I can tell when he's seen Bonnie's message. Well, messages. He jolts, I can see it even in the corner of my eye, and glances over at me, slow and apprehensive.

For a while, he keeps on staring, reading, gaging to see if I've laid eyes on the photo. But he doesn't say anything; so, I don't either. In my head, he'd chuck the phone out of reach in some grand declaration that he doesn't care for any other girl on his phone or at the school – after last night, I'm all he can think about. Thenwe'd ride off into the sunset, preferably on a horse. Is that too much to ask?

In my best attempt at blasé, I let out the hefty sort of sight you do early in the morning.

"What?" I ask. He's still staring.

"Nah, nothing."

The phone is switched off and tucked away, and I can only hope that my smile doesn't look as forced as it feels.

"So, I've found the perfect movie," I say, in a bid to tickle the awkward air. "And I think you'll love it, Mr. Film Studies."

Scott's cheek dimples and the butterflies threaten to start again. "I like that nickname."

"Hey, don't you owe me another clue? About your girl?" I ask casually, shutting the lid on any more goddamn butterflies.

He looks taken aback, tilting his head as though he might have misheard me.

"Clue?" He frowns.

"Yeah, clue... 4, I think."

He exhales sharply, like I've said something funny, but he doesn't answer straight away.

"You know," I explain, "she's a she; smells like jasmine and vanilla; strong..."

Now that I'm listing it aloud, it makes total sense that Bonnie's the mystery girl. She's as feminine as it gets, probably smells as good as she looks. I'm not so sure about 'strong', but she's perfect in every other way, so, sure, why not?

The dream Scott in my head (the one with the horse) says 'fuck the girl. I want you!' But the real Scott says,

"She's stunning." He shakes his head as he surrenders the clue. "I don't know how else to say it: she's fucking beautiful."

Ouch.

You know the twinge you feel in your chest when something painful happens and chips at your heart a little? You'd think you get used to the sensation at some point inlife, but you go long enough without feeling it, and goddamn, when it strikes, it hurts like a bitch.

"How sweet," I gulp."

After that, I try to divert all my attention to keying in the movie. We watch for a while through the questionable opening of a 2005 Cannes contender, but I can feel Scott's unreadable gaze on me from time to time.

"Can I help you?" My eyes finally meet his, and I ask with a smile that I hope looks as casual as I want it to.

Sighing, he says nothing until he's taken a seat right beside me on the sofa. The space he leaves between us is the width of a bobby pin, maybe.

Biting his lip, he looks deep into my eyes, his stare bold but gentle as it silently asks, is this okay? Are we okay?

I breathe out for both of us, and rest my head on his shoulder before pressing 'play' on the movie again. I feel his shoulder soften as his body relaxes; he nestles his head above mine until I can feel the apple of his cheek when he smiles.

I smile too, for real this time. He feels it too – the urge to be close to each other again. Even if there is someone else.

We watch the romcom play out with all its innuendos and innocence, and I make two promises to myself.

One that I won't get in the way of him and his 'fucking beautiful' girl, and another that I'll take as many perfect moments like this as life throws my way. Even if we are just mates.