TG/N: This is probably my first and last attempt at Hannah Montana fan fiction, if only because I would suffer a brutal beating from my friends if they ever knew. But honestly, this show is kind of a secret obsession of mine and after that miniscule moment on 'I Will Always Loathe You' with Jackson and Lilly in front of the TV (I know, how much of a dork does that make me that I loved that so much?), I was inspired to write this. I mean, seriously, how great would they be together? In any case, I present to you my creation. Hope everyone enjoys.

He walks around with his shirt off a lot.

Not that he does it more so than usual, like an exhibitionist or a crazy person, she supposes. It's more like she's noticed it more often.

Not that she's looking.

She has been over to the Stewarts' house thousands of times, and she has seen Jackson without a shirt on many of those times. But the last few instances she has slept over at Miley's house, he just so happened to walk into the room, and he just happened to be shirtless, and Lilly just happened to notice, that's all.

It's not even like Jackson is completely cut like those icky guys on all those body building shows. There is some muscle definition in his stomach, chest, and arms, but other than that, he looks like every other boy she surfs with down at the beach. She has seen it all before.

Still, it doesn't change the fact that the last time he walked into Miley's room (shirtless) to ask, "Why do cows have bells?" ("Because their horns don't work!"), her heart began pounding ridiculously loud. Her palms began to perspire, heat rushed to her face, and she pretty much lost all ability to speak. Thinking back on it, she's pretty sure her reaction wasn't in response to his terrible joke.

And it's not the naked thing either. Well, semi-naked anyway. She's seen Miley's dad shirtless loads of times (not by choice, mind you), and the only reaction she has is the sudden impulse to flee the scene. Nope, the only time her senses ever go haywire is with the whole Jackson thing.

It's not like she's in love with him or something. Lilly Truscott does not have time for love, for one thing, and also, he is Miley's older brother which is just gross and sacrilegious and . . . and some other big word she can't think of at the moment.

"Lilly, are you even listening to me?"

"Huh?" It's Miley, and she's asking her something about the stupid movie they're watching with Orlando Bloom in it. Lilly has to do some fast thinking. She manages, "Oh, uh, yeah. He's a dreamboat."

For now, she's avoided Miley's wrath, and Miley, satisfied, goes back to watching the movie while she gathers her composure.

So where was she? Oh, yeah. In conclusion, she is not in love with Jackson, Miley's older brother. Period.

--

He is considered quite a catch.

At least, Sarah seems to think so.

Stupid Sarah with her stupid hemp bags and stupid "Save the Earth!" flyers. She has stupid hair, stupid glasses, stupid prairie clothes, and if she is being completely honest, Sarah is quite possibly the stupidest person she has ever met in her entire life. She bets Sarah even comes from a long line of stupid relatives on her stupid family tree.

Oh, and did she mention Sarah has a stupid crush on Jackson? Because she does. And the whole thing is just so stupid.

It's between third and fourth period when stupid Sarah comes walking towards her, and Lilly swears that if stupid Sarah tries to give her one of those stupid Greenpeace flyers, she will smack her. Lilly's not quite sure when she started disliking stupid Sarah, but the dislike starts to swell the closer she comes to Lilly, almost like a contact high.

"Hi!" Sarah greets cheerfully as she adjusts the stack of books in her stupid hands.

Stopping in her tracks, Lilly turns around and plasters a huge, fake smile on her face. "Sarah!" she says loudly, her face muscles straining. "Hi!"

Miley would have known the smile was fake. Luckily, she's not there.

"Listen," Sarah says as she follows Lilly to her locker. No way is Lilly Truscott stopping to talk to stupid Sarah about beached whales and the greenhouse effect. She's got places to be. Like, um, Algebra class. Where was Oliver when you needed him? "I wanted to talk to you about Jackson," Sarah continues mildly escaping being hit in the forehead with Lilly's locker door.

For the first time since they have started speaking, Lilly stops moving. This is certainly an unexpected conversation topic. She shoves the rest of her things into the locker and then pokes her head out from behind the door. "Jackson? What about him?" she asks suspiciously, her brow furrowed.

Sarah shifts her stupid books from one stupid arm to the other. Her large eyes stare back at Lilly innocently from behind those thick, stupid lenses. Has she mentioned she kind of hates Sarah right now? "Oh," Sarah comments lightly, "well, as you probably know, I am in love with Jackson, and I just wanted to run this by you to see if you were okay with it because I know you have had a crush on Jackson for awhile now."

Lilly waits for Sarah to end the speech with "Just Kidding!" and continue rambling about how pollution is ruining the corals' oceanic lifespan or whatever. But it never happens. Instead she waits there expectantly, with a stupid grin on her face, giving Lilly a chance to give her consent.

Except, Lilly doesn't give her consent. Not exactly, anyway. It's just . . . this all seems way too fast, and Jackson is a free spirit, or at least, an immature one, and Sarah is just . . . well, Sarah, and the two of them have nothing in common, and this love thing seems way too serious for a freshman in high school, and, to be frank, ridiculous. Unwillingly, she admits, there is a small part of her that wonders if Jackson in any way feels the same about Sarah. The thought kind of makes her sick for some reason.

Overall, however, the impulse to deny charges is stronger than actually saying anything else.

Lilly casually grabs her Algebra book and snorts in derision. She laughs far louder than normal. Miley would have noticed. "Ha! I—what? I don't . . . I mean, he's . . ." Lilly continues, unable to actually say what she wants to, ". . . that's just . . . it's, pfft! I don't have a crush on Jackson!" she finally finishes.

Sarah just blinks at her, her eyes large behind those stupid lenses. "Oh," she says, her brows furrowed in confusion, "well, it sure looked that way. Oh, well." Suddenly, she brightens and waves feverishly. "'Bye!"

As she watches Sarah walk away, Lilly calls after her loudly, gathering a few looks from the other people in the hallway, "I do not have a crush on Jackson!"

"Of course you don't," Miley, after the words hang in the air for a good awkward minute or two, agrees with her, suddenly appearing and wrapping an arm around Lilly which causes her to jump, "'cause that'd just be wiki-wiki-weird!"

She has a point, Lilly considers.

"Plus, eww! With a side of uugghh!" She shivers to emphasize her point.

Well, Lilly thinks, it's not that bad. He does kind of have nice eyes. But she does not have a crush on Jackson. Understand?

--

He is a rock star.

Or at least, that's what Miley says.

She has a dream that because she loses her voice, she's not special anymore, and her family uses her as a slave. Jackson becomes the new star of the family with some stupid name (Bucky Kentucky or whatever), and Oliver thinks her mom is hot, which Lilly thinks is pretty in character for him, even in a dream.

Although Lilly doesn't mean to, later in the day, she dwells on the whole Jackson as a rock star thing and admits only to herself that the idea is strangely kind of intriguing. And other than the fact he can't sing, oddly plausible.

She draws the line at leather pants, though. And eyeliner.

Although maybe on Jackson, they wouldn't be too bad, she decides. Later, she will blame the caffeine she never drank for the illogical thought. Or Algebra class. It does kind of make you zany sometimes.

--

He agrees with her.

About not understanding the hype behind High School Musical, which, next to skateboarding, is pretty much the only thing that matters. It's just a movie.

"It is not just a movie," Miley protests, arms crossed over her chest. Her hip juts out, which usually means she is extra serious. Oliver's hip juts out, too. He's either agreeing with Miley or trying to be stylish; Lilly can't decide.

"Yeah," Oliver agrees from his spot near the couch. Miley's on one side, and Lilly is on the armchair. It works. For the argument's sake. "It's a cinematic masterpiece."

"What about movies like Star Wars or The Godfather?" Jackson counters before Lilly can make an argument. It's fine, though, 'cause it's the same argument she would have made. He enters in through the front door—with a shirt on—mail in tow, and sinks into the other armchair. His legs drape over the arm. He really needs a haircut.

Although she does not mention this out loud, Star Wars is sort of her favorite movie, and the fact that Jackson likes it, too (mentioning equals liking), makes her stomach do that weird flip-flop thing, and her palms start to sweat again. She has always been a huge fan of explosions, laser beams, and young Harrison Ford, and lucky for her, Star Wars has all three. Plus, Princess Leia, who's, like, the coolest movie heroine of all time. She forgets why there is even an argument.

Miley brushes it off. "Puh-leeze," she emphasizes, "all other movies pale in comparison, and anyone with half a brain knows that."

Lilly sighs in frustration. They just don't seem to get the picture. "Yeah, but what makes the movie so great?" she voices for what feels like the millionth time.

Oliver scoffs. If Jackson needs a haircut, Oliver really needs one. "Uh, duh, Lilly," he chides, reclaiming his seat on the couch, "it's about high school, and it's a musical. I fail to understand why you can't see the awesome in that formula."

"Amen, brothuh," Miley confirms. The two high-five, and then she adds, "Plus, Zac Efron is so dreamy!"

Oliver sighs. "I know!" he says, mashing his hands together in excitement. "And I really feel like the movie is so much like our lives!" He coughs as if realizing what he is saying and adds, in a deeper voice, "In-In a really manly way, of course. 'Cause of all the . . . guy stuff."

He makes less sense the more he talks until finally Robbie Ray, confused, calls down, asking if Uncle Earl has stopped by, to which Miley replies that he hasn't. She mumbles something about Oliver being a terrible arguer.

With a triumphant grin, Jackson says, "Final point is that High School Musical is, at best, a mediocre, B-list, made-for-TV movie, and Truscott, over there, agrees with me. Since Oken can't speak anymore, and there is only one of you, baby sister, we win."

Miley makes a face as Jackson stands and performs some sort of crazy victory dance, but Lilly barely notices as she is too busy focusing on the fact that he used the word 'we' to describe the two of them. She can't help but think she used to be a lot less sappy before ninth grade.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go read these letters from Sarah," he explains, dangling said letters in his hand. "I swear she's crazy. They should just call her 'Psycho Sarah' instead of 'Saint Sarah'."

All of a sudden, Lilly doesn't feel so victorious anymore.

--

He brings a date to the Hannah Montana concert.

And she's perfect.

Her name is Jenny, and she has the red colored hair Lilly's always wanted, but is too scared to actually try, and she is really tall and thin, and she has the raddest kicks, and Lilly doesn't even like pink, but she knows those sneakers are practically the best things ever. Jenny has the bluest eyes, she's honestly the prettiest girl, other than Miley, that Lilly has ever seen, and as if she is not cool enough, Jenny is also a skater. Lilly has dealt with Jackson's past flings in the form of Olivia, Brainless Becky, Julie, Natasha—whoa, this list is longer than she remembers—and Sienna Grace, but Jenny is somehow different.

She has never considered herself to be a jealous person and has never had a problem with self-image, but she can't help thinking that Jenny is a lot cooler than she will ever be.

It almost makes her wish for stupid Sarah back.

Almost.

"Jackson, are you ready yet, boy? Miley's already out in the car. It's gonna take us at least forty-five minutes to get there, an' another ten just for Miley to fix her doggone hair. Let's go!" Robbie Ray calls up the stairs. He shakes his head afterwards and mutters to himself, more than anybody, "I swear that boy is vainer than a chipmunk in culottes." He pauses. "And, strangely enough, Uncle Earl."

He takes a moment to straighten his moustache before noticing Lilly seated in the kitchen. He looks at her in what can only be described as pity. This, for whatever reason, puts her in an even worse mood. The man who makes indistinguishable similes (or are they metaphors?) and wears a false moustache pities her.

Good grief.

"Are you sure you don't want to come, Lils?" he asks. It's sort of sweet that he has a nickname for her. Other than the shirtless thing, she likes Robbie Ray a lot.

"Oh, thanks, Mr. Stewart, but I can't," she informs him sadly, tracing a small crack in the kitchen's island counters. "My mom wants me home early tonight. Apparently, her boss is coming over for dinner, and she wants to make a good impression or whatever."

He offers her a sympathetic smile and places a hand on her shoulder in a reassuring manner. "Well, take comfort in knowing you will be missed. Jenny's great, but she's no Lilly Truscott."

Did she mention she really likes Robbie Ray?

They exchange good-byes, and just before he exits the door, "Oh, by the way, how is your mother?"

He says this way too casually, and almost instantly, she can tell he's totally still in love with her. Her mom, that is. She spares him any embarrassment, however, and replies vaguely that she's fine. Finally, he leaves, and she begins gathering her things because—obviously—she can't stay at the Stewarts' house because they're out. She grabs her bag, and just as she is about to grab her jacket, Jackson comes down the stairs. Again: wearing a shirt.

"Hey, Lilly, you got a sec?"

Before she realizes he has spoken to her, he asks her again, and she replies positively.

"Do you think this looks okay?" he asks. Before she can answer, he continues, "My outfit, I mean. Does it look okay? I need a girl's opinion, and Miley's out of the question because she's my sister, plus, she would probably say something dumb like, 'Oh, yeah! Looks great if ya' want that desperate loser look!' which really doesn't help anyone." He wipes his hands off on the front of his pants, and adds, unnecessarily, "So, uh, what do you think?"

He's wearing a red shirt under a brown, leather jacket with a nice pair of khakis. It's nothing special, but it looks good. Very good.

"It looks . . . nice," she decides is the best way to say it without sounding weird. Never in her life has she ever been asked by a boy about fashion. It's weird, to say the least. She hopes she doesn't come off as flippant because the clothes really do look nice.

"Really?"

She nods. "Yeah. Red looks good on you." Almost as soon as the words exit her mouth, she instantly regrets them. Her eyes widen, and she starts rambling. "No! I-I mean, red is a nice color. In a 'primary color,' general sense, sort of way."

Somehow, within the past thirty seconds, she has started to sound like Oliver. This is bad.

He runs a hand through his hair and shoves the other one in his pocket. A small grin tugs at his lips. "Thanks, Lilly," he says. I appreciate it."

"No problem."

He leaves, and she sits, trying not to think about what an idiot she sounded like or how there's probably going to be definite hand-holdage between Jackson and Jenny. Or, even worse, kissage. Things like this never used to bother her, so it is completely bonkers that they should start doing so now.

--

He drives her home.

It's the last few seconds of the fourth quarter, and the final point—a spike courtesy of Jackson—is made. The entire crowd erupts into cheers, including Lilly because, admittedly, volleyball kind of makes her go crazy. It's kind of like skateboarding, except not, which is why she likes it. If that makes any sense.

In the third of her brain that is still functioning normally, she knows it doesn't.

As the crowd starts filing out of the gymnasium, she realizes the huge mistake she has made in declining Miley and her dad's offer to take her home. See, Miley and her dad had left earlier in the game for a Hannah gig, and not wanting to hold her back, Lilly tells her she will just hitch a ride with her other friends, only as it turns out, the only other friend she has is Oliver, and due to a bout of pneumonia, he is not even at the game. They—Miley and her—are supposed to visit him after school, but that does nothing to solve nor confront her problem.

So she finds herself sitting on one of the benches in the lobby, dangling her legs over the side like a little school girl since her legs still don't touch the ground. It would be embarrassing if she wasn't so caught up in not having a way home. She doesn't have a cell phone thanks to her dad, and only the weird kids use the pay phone, and she isn't desperate enough to resort to that option quite yet, so she stays seated and wills the crowd with her mind to exit just a little faster. Eventually, the flood of people slows to a trickle, until only one or two people are leaving at a time. Jackson is one of the last to leave, and even then, she doesn't expect him to notice her. But he does.

"Lilly!" He sounds surprised to see her. Not bad surprised, just normal surprised. "Hey! What are you doing here? Are-Are you waiting for someone?"

She coughs, clearing her throat, and lamely attempts to smooth her hair which is most likely staticky from the cap she removed earlier. It's ridiculous, but for whatever reason, she suddenly feels nervous. Maybe because it's the first time ever that she's in a room alone with Jackson. Even the janitorial staff seems to be absent.

"Oh, no, um, I'm going to call my mom," she explains, somehow feeling even more embarrassed and far younger than she actually is. "She should be here in, like, a half hour or so."

Jackson sets his thins on the bench beside her and rummages through his duffle bag for a beaten, leather jacket. He shrugs it on over his volleyball uniform and suggests, "Well, do you want me to give you a ride? I mean, then you don't have to bug your mom, or wait for a half hour."

"I-I don't want to impede," she says, and she can tell she is nervous because she's using words like 'impede' that she has only ever used maybe twice before in English class.

"It's no trouble at all," he assures her as he fishes the car keys out of his jacket pocket. "Your house is on the way, so it won't even be a problem."

"Oh." She gathers her cap and messenger bag and slings it over her shoulder. The bag, not the cap. "Okay."

She follows him outside, and somehow they end up walking side by side, but strangely, it's not that awkward. The stars are out, the moon is full, and surprisingly, it's pretty cold for a California night. Maybe, she thinks as she listens to the soles of her sneakers scrape against the macadam, the nervousness is gone because it's easier to breathe in the open outdoors. But then Jackson opens the car door for her and the nervousness is back again, full force.

Still, she straps herself in and waits for him to do the same thing before they are driving out of the parking lot, towards her house. It occurs to her that it is kind of strange that he seems to know the way to her house, even though she hasn't given him any directions, but she doesn't dwell on it because she has enough on her mind as it is.

The first few minutes of the drive are spent in awkward silence. Then, they both reach for the radio knob—to quell the awkwardness—which only causes more awkwardness, profuse apologies from both parties, and the dulcet tones of David Bowie's 'Ziggy Stardust.' But, hey! At least the silence is gone.

"Ah, Coop used to love this song," Jackson tells her randomly. He flicks the left blinker on, looks both ways, and then makes the turn.

She's unsure what to say to that, so instead she says nothing. She was never really that close to Cooper in the first place, and she has never noticed Jackson's hands are so big before. Not that she is fixating on insignificant details, of course.

"So . . . like the new wheels," is the first thing that comes to mind, so she blurts it out loud because saying something seems less lame than saying nothing. Although, if she knew that's what she was going to say . . .

"Thanks," he says proudly. He straightens in his seat and checks the rearview mirror. "'Figured the old car had lived its life to the fullest, driven to the end of its road, if you know what I mean." To be honest, she has no idea what he means. Boys and their cars. "Besides, nothing's cooler—or more masculine—than a 1992 Ford Taurus station wagon. Or at least, that's what my dad says, anyway."

He laughs. Then she laughs. And for the first time since the ride began, she feels comfortable in her own skin, like it's perfectly normal for her and Jackson to be hanging out and him to be giving her rides home and holding car doors open for her. It's a nice feeling and for whatever reason in her convoluted brain, she has to ruin it by asking, "So, uh, how are things with Jenny?"

She doesn't want to ask, obviously. Just the thought of the two of them together makes her sick, but for whatever reason, the words just fly out of her mouth like projectile vomit. Two seconds later, she wishes she would have chosen a different a different metaphor (or is it simile?).

The good news is that Jackson doesn't seem to be angry. If anything, he looks annoyed. Whether at the mention of Jenny or herself is left to be determined. "Oh, well, as it turns out," he explains as he shifts the car into reverse and backs the car up her driveway, "Jenny and I don't have a lot in common. Plus, she doesn't have much goin' on up here." He points to his head. She giggles. She can't help it. He smiles at her. "I guess I'm just lookin' for a girl who has brains and a lot of spunk," he adds with a shrug of his shoulders.

So basically me, she can't help thinking. It's a reflex. A ridiculous reflex that needs to be stopped. And besides, she's totally ignoring the stupid photosynthesis incident.

"Well, good night, Jackson," she says, gathering her things as the car pulls to a stop. She opens the door and slings one leg, then two, out of it before turning back towards him. "Thanks muchly for the ride."

After she slams the car door shut, Jackson leans over the passenger seat and pokes his head out of the window. "No problem. Anything for a fellow 'HSM' hater," he adds, even using air quotes around HSM. The two share a quick chuckle, and as if on cue, her heart starts thudding loudly in her chest. Stupid heart. "Take care, Truscott," he finally says before once again turning the key in the ignition and shifting into first gear. It's the second time she can recall him calling her by her last name.

As she watches him drive away, she can't help admitting that she doesn't exactly hate it. But, pssht! Again, she reiterates, she does NOT have a crush on Jackson.

--

She has a crush on Jackson.

She's been trying to convince herself otherwise for the longest time, but it is a lot of work, and she's never really been that dedicated, plus, she's really tired. Of fighting it. The whole crush thing.

Besides, she spends enough time and energy hiding this thing from Miley as it is. Because, honestly, how mortifying would that be if she knew? Miley, that is?

It's absolutely ludicrous. Usually, she's just concerned with homework, and how to nail that 180 on her newly modded skateboard, and whether or not Oliver will ever hold up his end of the bargain to show up to school one day without any pants on. She's not a very romantic person. She cringes every time Miley makes her watch While You Were Sleeping or Sleepless in Seattle (even though, admittedly, she's kind of obsessed with Tom Hanks). And every time she passes the Lifetime Network on television, she actually shudders. Unfortunately, it doesn't change the fact that for a long time now, all she can think about is Jackson, which is really just upsetting because he's Miley's brother, and, hello, two years older than she is. Plus, he has a list of girls he's been with that's longer than any algebra equation she has ever come across in her entire life.

He likes pistachio flavored ice cream and thinks Benny Hill is hilarious. He's immature and has had more girlfriends than any actual friends, and she's completely and totally in love with him. It's the craziest thing she has ever heard.

She can't sleep.

For whatever reason, Miley's floor is a lot less comfortable than she remembers. So she heads downstairs because, oddly enough, even though she can't sleep, she could totally go for a Reuben melt. Or even some chocolate pudding.

Except, when she gets downstairs, Jackson's already there, watching TV. It looks like some kind of wrestling show—which she loves—but she's too concerned with how she's not exactly wearing a bra because she wasn't really expecting to meet up with anyone else. Thankfully, it's dark, save for the mute glow of the television screen. Still, she crosses her arms over her chest and stealthily makes her way into the kitchen, hoping to avoid a confrontation at all costs. However, the moment she opens the refrigerator door, Jackson notices her.

Stupid refrigerator light, with all its glowiness.

"Lilly? Is that you?" he calls over.

"Um, yeah," she mutters sheepishly, as she grabs a pudding cup. Someone ate the last Reuben. She suspects it was Robbie Ray.

"What're you doing up?" he asks conversationally. She can't help noticing he's wearing a shirt. Unfortunately.

"Couldn't sleep," is her response. She takes a seat at the opposite end of the couch and pulls her knees up to her chest. At least it's covered now. "Plus, I got kind of hungry."

He grins. "I know the feeling." Then, he holds up a pudding cup identical to hers.

She laughs politely. "So, um, what are we watching?" she asks, hoping to keep silence as far away as possible from the conversation.

"Oh, um . . ." Jackson sets his pudding container down and reaches for the TV remote. "Just a wrestling program. We don't have to w—"

"No!" She reaches for the remote at the same time, and their hands brush. She recoils. "I-I mean, it's fine. I like wrestling."

"Okay, then," he comments enthusiastically as if nothing happened, "wrestling it is!"

Unfortunately, silence does sort of become the topic between the two of them as they sit, watching grown men in unitards body slam their opponents. Except for the silence part, it's not too bad. At least the sofa is comfortable. Ish.

"Hey, Lilly."

She starts at the sound of her own name, but then realizes it's just Jackson. She makes a gesture that shows she's listening. Well, hopefully that's how it comes across. Then again, "Hmm?" is technically the international sound for "what?", right?

"This is probably going to sound really dumb," he starts, sounding, for whatever reason, nervous, "but, uh . . . Actually, you know what? Just forget it."

"What?" Now, her curiosity is piqued. She leans in and encourages, "Come on! What were you going to say?"

Deep down, she knows it's going to be one of his stupid jokes, but part of her hopes that it's something else. Something deeper. Something like, but not necessarily—

"I like you, Lilly."

—that.

She means to say something profound, something witty, but she can't seem to work the part of her brain that manages speech. When she finally does, manage it, that is, the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a big, fat, "What?"

Because honestly, she can't believe her ears, and if this is a dream, then it's a pretty sucky one. The chocolate pudding isn't even that great. It's sort of runny.

"Dang it!" he swears. Although, technically, it's not really swearing. She's never heard him actually swear, which is sort of chivalrous of him. Wait, what is she saying? "Sorry," he apologizes, purposely avoiding her eyes. "That-That came out a lot creepier and way more forceful than I meant it to—Again, if you could just do me a huge favor, just, uh, forget I said anything, alright?"

"No, Jackson," she protests, one of her hands slipping into his. It's either the bravest thing she has ever done or the stupidest, "it's okay. I, um . . . I like you, too."

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but she's certain he hears her because not only does he stare down at their interlocking hands, but he glances up at her, his eyes wide. "Really?" he asks.

She swallows. Hard. "Yeah."

"Okay, then." He settles back in his seat.

"Okay." She's sure she doesn't imagine that his grip on her hand tightens by just a small amount. Thankfully, her palms are not sweaty.

So they sit there, holding hands, watching wrestling, like it's the most normal thing in the world. And she can't help but think that even though she is not a romantic, she could get used to this. The whole hand holding, wrestling watching thing. Plus, come to think about it, she really doesn't mind stupid Sarah anymore, either.

Well, for now, at least.