Work Text:
6:59
Maybe she'll do it.
No way, that chick puts the chick in chicken.
6:15
Mel stares down at her shuffling feet. It's a nervous habit. Nothing about this is what she would call her kind of fun. Her hand crumples her sleeve, waiting for the timer to tick faster.
5:34
"Listen, babydoll, about what they're sayin' out there–"
He stops himself on account of her head whipping to level her gaze with his. Eyes wet. Bottom lip red from her own bite. She can't bring herself to hide the tears anymore.
4:58
Frankie, the senior currently locked in here with her, is quick to wipe her tears with his sleeve. The cotton one, peaking out from his jacket. "You sure you're okay?"
Mel nods, silently. The words don't make it past her throat, but her mind knows well enough.
She wants this.
She specifically wants him.
4:02
It's a wet, slobbery kiss, lacklustre in technique but not in feeling. He moans against her and holds her flush against him.
Christ, does this feel good. Mel scrunches her hand on the collar of his leather jacket, the zipper printing on her palm from the pressure of her grip. She feels it draw blood. Fuck it. Only fair since she's drawing blood from his bottom lip anyways.
0:15
Mel figures she'll see him around town, taking puffs off some biker, or putting frosting on his girl's nose at the diner. Her friends will steer her away, point to some pastel dork with daddy's plastic, but Mel knows better than that.
She'll catch his eye again. Just as she did her first day of sophomore year, when he slid his hand in her back pocket to deliver an introductory note.
Though after this, he will have proof of two things she realized back then—his lips slot into hers perfectly, and he won't be going steady with miss frosting for long.