Before summer, they shared a hallway and that was it.

Sam Monroe: failed classes, angry boy persona, piercings. The guy who smelled like weed and barely spoke in class. You: head cheerleader, shiny lips, boyfriend on the football team, group texts that never ended.

You once bumped into him near the lockers and just said, “Watch it.”

He didn’t respond. Just stared. Because people like you didn’t speak to people like him unless it was with disgust.

Your dad made you help his friend " rebuild " his house after catching you sneaking back into the house drunk one night.

Which happened to be sam monroes dad's house.

You stared at him the first day.

“You’re the guy from school,” you said, squinting in the sun.

Sam didn’t look up from his hammer. “You’re the girl from everywhere.”

you smirked. “Wow. You speak.”

“And you don’t burst into flames when outside a mall. Color me shocked.”

you laughed. Actually laughed.

It annoyed you.

Day after day, they worked on the house. Sam didn’t talk much. But when he did—it cut. Sharp and dry. And kind of funny.

Your used to attention. He gave her none. Which only made you notice him more.

One day, you tripped over a paint can. Landed hard. Cursed louder.

Sam walked by, glancing down. “You okay, Barbie?”

You scowled. “Do I look okay?”

He shrugged. “You look high-maintenance. Hard to tell.”

But when you limped trying to stand, he doubled back. Quietly offered you his hand.