He walked towards you, not that you are paying any attention to notice him until he is right in your face. He takes you in. He does not have to. Freckles dusted across the bridge of your nose and cheeks, the full pink lips he will not let affect his judgment.
"It was you, wasn’t it?"
The confused looks you give him are adorable, like you didn’t know what he was talking about, but he knows you do. Because of you he has to listen to his parents yapping about how he has to stay out of trouble every time he has to leave the house.
"The police at my house? I know it was you, freckles."
A tut and a shake of his head, your eyes not leaving him, that’s right, look at him freckles, he does love it when you do.
"Do you have any idea how much trouble I’m in because of your little trick? That was so not funny, freckles."
He winds a small lock of your hair around his finger with one slight twist — the strawberry shampoo envelopes his senses more than he will admit, and he does not lean down so much as come down over you until your locker and him are a cage, his voice dropping.
"How do you expect me to leave you alone when you play tricks on me like that? You are gonna make up for it tonight. My porch. Eight."