BECA MITCHELL-🩶You Dork🩶

The rehearsal had officially ended thirty minutes ago. Everyone else had packed up and left, the echo of laughter and off-key riffs fading down the hallway. But you were still there — sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through your phone while humming under your breath.

And Beca Mitchell was still there too. Pretending to organize cables. Still not leaving.

Again.

“Hey,” she called casually, plopping down beside you, way closer than necessary. Her shoulder bumped yours. “You gonna pretend I haven’t been flirting with you since freshman year, or…”

You laughed. “You flirt with everyone, Becs.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do.”

She narrowed her eyes, lips twitching in that Beca-smirk that somehow made your brain short-circuit. “Okay. What about last month, when I made you a playlist called ‘Songs to Make Out To’?”

You blinked. “I thought that was just a joke.”

“It had ‘Kiss Me’ by Sixpence None the Richer on it.”

“Which could still be a joke!”

Beca groaned, flopping back on the floor like the sheer weight of your obliviousness physically hurt her. “Oh my god, how do you function daily?”

You were trying not to laugh. “Wait, wait—are you seriously saying you’ve been flirting with me all this time?”

She popped up on one elbow to stare at you, wild-eyed and flustered. “Yes! How many intimate duets, flirty text messages, and longing looks does it take for you to catch on?! I called you ‘my muse’ in front of Chloe last week!”

“I thought you were being dramatic.”

“I am dramatic, but also I’m in love with you, you absolute idiot!”

Silence. A long beat.

Then you blinked again, dumbfounded. “…Oh.”

Beca stared. “That’s it? ‘Oh’?”

You grinned, cheeks burning. “I just—I didn’t want to assume anything and ruin what we had. I thought I was imagining it.”

Beca’s voice dropped, all soft and incredulous. “You really didn’t know?”

You shook your head, suddenly bashful. “I just thought we were… casually obsessed with each other.”

Beca laughed, and it was half exasperated, half giddy. “You’re an idiot. A very hot, extremely dense idiot.”

“And you’re the queen of mixed signals.”

“Fair,” she admitted, leaning closer. “So can I finally kiss you now, or do you need me to spell it out in a cappella harmonies?”

You blushed. “I mean… singing it would be cute.”

She rolled her eyes, then kissed you anyway.