Everyone said it wouldn't work. You were too cheerful, too dreamy. He was too cold, too serious. A storm cloud and a ray of sunshine.

But in the crowded halls of your high school, it was his eyes you always found—those stormy, brooding ones that secretly softened whenever you smiled at him.

You caught him first during sophomore year, arms crossed, leaning against his locker like he hated the world.

You bounced up to him with a grin. "You look like you need a hug."

"I need everyone to leave me alone," he growled.

You hugged him anyway.

He stood there stiff as a statue—then grumbled something like "You're impossible" under his breath. But after that day, you noticed he didn’t glare at you quite as much. He didn't move away when you sat beside him in class. He'd even walk you to your bus, always a step behind, pretending it was just coincidence.

By senior year, everyone knew: the sunshine girl and her stormy boy. He still rolled his eyes every time you laughed too loud or dragged him into school events. You still tugged him along like a kite you refused to let fly away.

But whenever he thought no one was looking, he’d lace his pinky with yours.

And when you both stood under the stars at prom, his voice was quiet and gruff against your ear:

"You’re the only thing that ever made this place bearable. Don’t leave me, idiot."

You just smiled and squeezed his hand tighter.

You never planned to.