“You hate it,” he says, his voice flat. He starts scrolling in the Pro Tools file. “Okay, so. Okay. I’ll pull back the strings. And, hmm—” he highlights a section in the middle “—maybe add some more snare here? Does that even make sense? I’ve been working on the arrangement all week and I’ve made so many minor tweaks my brain is kind of like, What’s a triangle? at this point. I… thought I had it. Shit. Okay, I’ll figure it out. I’ll—”

“Reid,” I repeat.

He stands and runs a hand through his curls, like he’s ready to start pacing, but I reach for his hand, as if it can steady him. As if I can steady him. That’s not what we do though. We push, we don’t hold. Reid is competition. Reid is opposition.

But.

Reid never complains that it’s too late to create. Reid is the guy who says Zombie Solidarity, when we are sleep-deprived and spend half of our AP Study period answering one math problem. Reid takes the show as seriously as I do.

And he called it our music.

“It’s perfect, Reid. It’s—”

I don’t know what I’m going to say next but I don’t need to because Reid’s mouth is on mine and my brain short-circuits. Like, holy shit, I actually might be dead? Did I choke on a cupcake? Is Reid trying to, I don’t know, revive me? He’d be the first suspect if I randomly died.

But Reid pulls me closer to him and his hands are on my hips. My arms wrap around his neck and my hands are in his hair and it’s soft, so soft, and nope, okay, I am definitely not dead. His lips are rough against mine and I feel the impulsiveness of the kiss, the recklessness of this moment, and oh my God I want it. We move together, a step backward, and Reid lifts me so I’m sitting on the desk. He teeth brush against my lower lip and it’s hot. Reid is hot.

He pulls back. “Is this okay?”

I nod even as my mouth is saying, “This is a bad idea.”

“Probably.”

Reid smirks the smirk I hate so much. I’ve wanted to wipe it off his face a million times and this time I do. I pull Reid’s lips to mine. Reid opens his mouth and I sigh into it. He pulls back, only to inhale a sharp laugh. I say, “Shut up,” and Reid says, “Gladly,” and we’re kissing like it’s just what we do, no big deal. I haven’t kissed anyone since summer camp, freshman year, the last year my parents could afford it. Jacob Simon was cute and knew who August Wilson was, but the kissing was sloppy—neither of us knew what we were doing.

Reid knows what he’s doing.