It started with a word that didn’t exist.

They were sitting on the floor of Jude’s bedroom, the English Test long forgotten.

Jude was strumming his guitar, lazy and unfocused, his socked feet nudging Ryan’s knee every few bars.

Ryan was pretending to read from his notes but had been staring for at least five straight minutes — at Jude’s curls, his blue shirt, the way his lips curved when he concentrated.

Jude looked up mid-chord. “You do that a lot, you know.”

Ryan blinked. “Do what?”

“That.” Jude gestured vaguely at him, grinning. “You blush, like, constantly. It’s not a normal human amount of blushing. It’s a superpower. You’re an icon. A… Blush Icon.”

Ryan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Oh my god. Stop. That’s so dumb.”

Jude laughed, leaning closer. “No, it’s perfect. That’s your codename now. Agent Blush Icon. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to get flustered by literally everything I do.”

Ryan peeked through his fingers, his cheeks burning even hotter. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” Jude said softly, tugging Ryan’s hands away from his face. “Okay, fine. You get to give me one too.”

Ryan looked at him — really looked. The blue shirt, the kind eyes, the warmth radiating from him like sunlight through glass.

He didn’t even have to think.

“Cute Blue,” he said quietly.

Jude smiled, like the name itself was a compliment. “Cute Blue,” he repeated. “I can work with that. So it’s official then? Blush Icon and Cute Blue?”

Ryan shook his head, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “No. It’s dumb.”

A pause. Then softer, with a small smile: “But... yeah. For now.”

The first thing Ryan did when he woke up the next morning was grab his phone, a frantic need for proof thrumming under his skin.

Did last night actually happen?

The proof was there — a single, beautiful message sent an hour ago.

 >Jude: good morning

Ryan’s brain, which had short-circuited spectacularly the night before, promptly rebooted into a new, even more complex operating system: The “We Are Officially A Thing” Protocol.

It came with a thousand new rules he didn’t know how to follow.

His internal committee went into session.

  >Okay, he said “good morning.” The correct and equivalent response is “good morning” back. But the emoji — the emoji is critical. Last night’s kiss has unlocked new levels of emoji clearance. A simple smiley face is now... legal, right? Yes. We’ve kissed. A smiley face is definitely legal. What about a heart? A red heart emoji?

The anxiety-bot immediately flashed a red alert.

 >DANGER. TOO SOON. ABORT. A heart is a level-seven commitment. We are currently at a level three.

“Ryan! Breakfast!” his mom’s voice called from downstairs, a warm and familiar sound that shattered his internal debate. “You’ll be late!”

 Okay, just send the smiley face before Mom comes up here and asks why I’m blushing at my own phone, he thought, his thumbs moving with newfound urgency.

Ry: good morning 

He hit send and scrambled out of bed, the buzz of Jude’s immediate reply — — a happy, secret hum under his skin for the rest of the day.

The first time they saw each other at school was an exercise in mutual, delightful awkwardness.

They made eye contact across the crowded main hallway.

For a split second, the whole world seemed to stop — the chaos of a thousand students fading into a blurry background.

Ryan’s brain screamed at him to do something. Smile? Wave?

He settled on a short, jerky, almost imperceptible nod.

Jude, from thirty feet away, returned the exact same gesture.

Then both of them immediately broke eye contact and stared intently at their own shoes, faces burning.

Rehearsals were a new kind of special torture.

On stage, their chemistry was now so potent it was practically a fire hazard.

During a scene where Ethan has a nightmare and Marco has to comfort him, Jude gently pushed the hair off Ryan’s forehead — a small, unscripted gesture that made Ryan completely forget his next line.

“Okay, kids,” Ms. Davison said, a knowing smirk in her voice. “Let’s save some of that raw, simmering emotion for the actual performance, shall we?”

The whole cast laughed. Ryan wished the stage would open up and swallow him whole.

A few days later, they were in Ryan’s room, ostensibly working on an English project.

His mom had been in and out, offering snacks — her presence a warm but constant reminder that they were not entirely alone.

“Does your mom... know?” Jude asked in a whisper, nodding toward the closed bedroom door.

Ryan’s lips twitched into a smile. “Know what? That my new ‘friend’ from drama club now spends all his free time in my room and makes me grin at my phone like a complete idiot?”

“Yeah,” Jude said, his own smile mirroring Ryan’s. “That.”

Ryan sighed, glancing at the door. “No. She just thinks you’re a really good influence on my... um... theatrical skills.”

The unspoken question hung in the air.

“So,” Ryan started, his voice barely audible, “are we... telling people?”

Jude met his gaze, his expression immediately soft and serious. “Do you want to?”

Ryan shook his head quickly. “Not... everyone. Not yet.”

“Okay,” Jude said, with a finality that made all of Ryan’s anxiety settle. “Then we won’t. Just the important ones, when you’re ready. For everyone else, we’re just really, really good friends who have a lot of intense eye contact.”

The following afternoon was hot — a perfect, lazy Saturday.

The plan had been for Jude to come over, initiated by a text from him:

 J: my mom just made that lemonade you like.

But a new message followed:

 J: or we could just take the lemonade to the park. Grab some popsicles on the way.

Now they were sitting on that same park bench, but the world was in technicolor.

The nervous, electric tension of their first “maybe-date” was gone, replaced by a warm, easy intimacy that settled into Ryan’s bones.

Jude’s arm was draped casually along the back of the bench, his fingers just barely grazing Ryan’s shoulder.

It wasn’t a question anymore.

It was a statement.

Ryan was happily eating a bright red strawberry popsicle, the cold sweetness a perfect antidote to the afternoon heat.

Jude, who had been watching him with a warm, lazy smile, leaned in slightly.

His voice was a low, confident murmur — a stark contrast to the nervous boy who had confessed outside the movie theater.

“Your lips are red,” he said.

Ryan’s breath hitched.

Jude’s smile softened. “Can I taste it?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in and closed the small gap between them.

This kiss wasn’t like the others.

It wasn’t clumsy or desperate or nervous.

It was slow, and sweet, and sure.

It was a kiss that knew it belonged right where it was.

It tasted like artificial strawberry flavoring — and the promise of a long, perfect summer.

The new rules, Ryan thought, were going to be fun.

The sweetness of the popsicle was a temporary shield. Ryan’s phone buzzed in his pocket—a text from his mom asking if he’d called his uncle back yet.

Ryan ignored the vibration, leaning closer to Jude instead. In this bubble, the outside world and its 'misguided efforts' at family harmony couldn't reach him. He wasn't ready to be a bridge for his relatives; he just wanted to be here, in the strawberry-flavored quiet, with the only person who didn't ask him to be anyone else.

Chapter Word

Strawberry Love (n.):

Any moment flavored by fruity desserts, unabashed flirtation, and the sweet, slightly sticky beginnings of a new romance.

Symptoms include stained lips and a rapid increase in heart rate.