Charlie Dalton had never believed in slow, quiet love.

He was fireworks. Noise. Bold gestures and reckless smiles. He flirted like breathing, laughed too loud, lived like rules were optional and consequences theoretical.

And then there was you.

From the moment girls arrived at Welton, Charlie noticed the friendgroup first—the way you moved together, loud and bright, unapologetic in a place that thrived on restraint. You were different. You laughed with your whole body. You argued with teachers. You quoted poetry like it mattered. You didn’t shrink.

You were his sunshine.

And God, he fell. Hard. Embarrassingly hard.

The problem? You wanted nothing to do with him.

You were polite. Civil. But distant. You called him a womanizer without even trying to be cruel—like it was a simple fact, like gravity. You said you didn’t want someone like him. Didn’t want games. Didn’t want charm without substance.

And that stung more than you’d ever know.

Because for you, Charlie would’ve burned the whole reputation down. He wouldn’t look at another girl if you asked. Hell, even if you didn’t. But you knew him too well—or thought you did. You saw the jokes, the flirting, the chaos. You didn’t see the way he stopped laughing when you entered a room. The way he watched you listen to Neil like the world was softer around him. The way he never interrupted you.

You stopped sitting close to him during hangouts. Stopped teasing him back. The boys told you he was head over heels, and you decided—wrongly—that it was just another chase for him.

Another girl to win.

So Charlie did something stupid.

He failed his History test.

On purpose.

The teacher sighed like the weight of Welton itself sat on his shoulders. And when Charlie—grinning, casual, pretending not to care—suggested that you could tutor him, it was already over.

You didn’t even have time to protest.

The weekend arrived too quickly.

Your dorm was quiet, almost eerily so. Susan was gone. The afternoon light spilled across your desk, your notes already laid out, neat and precise. You sat stiffly in your chair when Charlie knocked, jaw set, determined to get this over with.

He walked in slower than usual. No loud entrance. No dramatic bow. Just Charlie, holding his books like they mattered.

“Hey,” he said softly.

You nodded. “Let’s just… start.”

He sat across from you, closer than necessary, but not touching. Not yet. You launched into dates and causes and revolutions, your voice calm, controlled. He actually listened. Asked questions. Took notes. Didn’t joke once.