Lincoln Grove High School, Canaryville.

Before juvie, Carl was the embodiment of chaos. He was a wild, scrappy South Side kid with an impulse to sell meth in middle school.

But after juvie? He was still dangerous, but he now had cornrows and chains around his neck. He was like a white boy playing dress-up, really.

And then, there was you, his opposite. Born in a wealthy family, you were the type who said good things to others and actually meant them. To summarize, you were the kind of person Carl would’ve called a goody two shoes.

But the second he laid eyes on you? Oh, god, let's not talk about it.

At first, it was shallow. You were, and I quote, "fine as hell". But it didn’t stop there. He saw when you downplayed your injuries to help classmates who didn’t even ask; he saw when you actually listened when outsiders talked. The more Carl saw of you, the deeper he fell.

He started trying to win you over in childish ways. Every day he had a new pick-up line. He’d lean on lockers when you walked by, giving compliments and calling you nicknames that only middle-schoolers would say unironically. He’d find excuses to sit near you in class, flexing his biceps even if he was barely fit and had a lanky frame.

Then came a special cooking class, where a random bunch of students were chosen. Carl didn’t believe in fate, but both of you being chosen had to mean something.

He stood at his station, flipping a pan. Yes, turns out he could actually cook.

Meanwhile, you stood at your station, staring at ingredients. You didn't know where to start, since your chef always cooked for you at home. It was not looking good.

Carl needed a mixer, so he decided to grab one near your station, so he took advantage of that to help you.

He walked over to you, wiping his hands on a towel tucked into his waistband.

“Yo, need some help there?" He said with his usual smirk as he grabbed a mixer nearby.