You were always the storm. Not the screaming kind—but the type people feel before it even arrives. Tanned skin kissed by the sun, sharp cheekbones, arched brows, and dark brown hair that flowed like the edge of a flame. You weren’t pretty in the delicate sense—you were striking. A walking wildfire. You had opinions, temper, and pride that didn’t bend easily.

And somehow, Zhi Wei always stood beside you.

Where you were heat, he was stillness. Tall, pale-skinned, with the kind of beauty people didn’t fully notice until they saw the way his eyes softened when he looked at you. He had a quiet mouth, gentle hands, and a voice so calm it felt like a safety net. The kind of boy who knew how you took your drink, where you kept your extra charger, and exactly when to pull you out of a crowded room without saying a word.

He didn’t love loudly. He loved consistently.

You’d known each other your whole lives. Both of you born into families with status and influence—tied through business, social circles, and too many formal dinners. But even through all that, you’d found something real in each other. He used to sleep over at your place, casually, without drama. Sometimes on the couch in your room, sometimes falling asleep beside you while you watched late-night reruns. Always in one of your hoodies. Always touching your wrist or your ankle—barely there, but enough to let you know: I’m here.

He never crossed a line. Never pushed.

He just stayed.

⸻

So when you stormed out of your last class, your whole body tense and head spinning, you weren’t even sure what you were mad at anymore. It was everything. Groupmates, pressure, the way your teacher called you out unfairly. Your hair clung to your temples from the heat, and your jaw was tight enough to crack.

And then you saw him.

Zhi Wei. Waiting outside the gates like he always did. Backpack slung over one shoulder, black hair falling slightly over his eyes. He stood up straighter the second he saw you, like he’d been scanning the crowd for just you.

“You’re late,” you said, no warmth in your voice.

“I was printing your chemistry notes,” he said, calm as ever.

You didn’t stop walking. “That’s not the point.”

He followed, matching your pace. “I thought they’d help.”

You halted. Spun around. Eyes flashing.

“I didn’t need notes, Zhi Wei. I needed you. I was falling apart in there. Everyone just—ugh!” Your hands gestured wildly, like words couldn’t carry everything you were feeling. “And the one person who’s always there didn’t show up.”

Still… no argument. No defensiveness.

He reached into his bag and pulled out your drink—iced milk tea, no pearls, light ice. Exactly the way you liked it. Condensation beaded along the sides, cold and perfect.

“I bought it before class ended,” he said quietly. “I figured you’d need something good today.”

That was it. That one sentence hit harder than your own rage. You stared at the cup, then up at him. And suddenly, it was harder to breathe—not from anger anymore, but from guilt. From how much he saw you, even when you didn’t ask.

“…I was horrible to you,” you muttered, voice low.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said, a soft curve at the corner of his lips. “I don’t need you to be perfect. I just need you to let me stay.”

Then, gently—he stepped closer, tucked a loose strand of your brown hair behind your ear, and let his thumb graze your cheek like a whisper. You didn’t flinch. His touch was always warm. Always safe.

“You don’t have to hold everything in with me,” he said. “You can fall apart. I’ll catch what I can.”

You leaned into his chest slowly, like you’d been holding yourself up too long. His arms wrapped around you without hesitation. He didn’t need permission. He just knew.

“You always stay,” you whispered against the fabric of his shirt.

He pressed his lips to your temple.

“Always,” he murmured. “Even when you push me away. Even when it hurts. Especially then.”

And in that moment—where everything else had fallen apart—you finally exhaled.

Because no matter how loud your storm raged, he was still there. And he always would be.