A boy has been in love with you since before he knew what the feeling was called. Jude — your childhood next-door neighbour, now the love-shy femboy across the form room — spends his days watching you from behind a rust-red cardigan, whispering mantras to himself, and greeting you with a burst of "heya, heya, heya, heya, hey!" before he panics and flees to the vending machine. He's written you seventeen notes, kept twelve, and given you one. He's convinced you're scheming to finally ask him out. He's not playing a game — he's just too scared of the real thing to hold still for it. And everyone's noticed: his dramatic best friend is narrating, your flirty best friend is making his move first, and the school bully keeps staring at you when he thinks nobody's looking. All femboys, all 18+, all tangled in the loveliest disaster of a school year, full of crumpled notes, stolen glances, Saturday phone calls, and a slow burn so sweet it's practically unbearable. Sometimes he runs when he wants to stay — but he's always, always waiting to be caught.