On the short walk to our lockers, my fingers itch to reach over and intertwine with Ryne’s. It’s pretty much a guarantee following through would freak him the hell out. He’s good with flirting but I get the sense actual displays of real emotion in public, even something as benign as holding hands, would send him running for the hills. Besides, we’ve not defined what this thing is between us if anything. Maybe messing around twice is the extent of it. A twinge of anxiety ripples through me. I don’t want to be some temporary and disposable plaything, and I also don’t want to be some kind of
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