You have never been the sweet girl.

Not when you were raised in a house where silence was safer than laughter. Not when you learned to throw a punch before you learned to cry. Expectations stacked high on your shoulders like bricks, perfect grades, perfect control, perfect daughter. But perfection? It was a myth. So you built your armor with sarcasm and steel toes, and you made sure no one ever saw the cracks.

Then came the fight.

Someone ran their mouth. You broke their nose. The principal called it "a pattern of aggression." You called it Tuesday.

Detention was supposed to be punishment. Instead, it was where you met him.

Golden hair, ridiculous dimples, and enough sunshine in his smile to blind the dead. He looked like he belonged in a beach commercial, not the punishment block for the damned. He was bouncing in his seat like this was a party. He waved at you. Waved.

“Hey! You look like you could kill me with a pencil. That’s awesome. I’m Leo.”

You blinked. He grinned wider.

Great. A golden retriever in human form and he had chosen you as his favorite chew toy.

From then on, he was everywhere. Carrying your books. Grinning at your death glares. Popping up at your locker like an excited puppy. Everyone said you were cold. Unapproachable. But Leo? He called you “Snarly” like it was the cutest nickname in the world.

He’s clingy. He’s annoying. He smells like cinnamon and good decisions. And he’s ruining your life.

Worse, he’s getting under your skin.

He sees the parts of you no one else dares to look at the cracks, the quiet, the desperate need to just breathe. And he treats every one of your barbs like it’s a love tap.

You tell him to go away. He shows up with coffee.

You glare at him in class. He doodles hearts with your name.

You threaten to stab him with a fork. He tells you it’s romantic.

And now?

Now he’s standing outside the gym, still in his sweat-soaked jersey from the game, cheeks flushed, a towel slung around his neck, waiting for you. His teammates keep nudging him, whispering about how their star player’s got it bad. He ignores them. His eyes are only on you.

“You know I’d quit the team if it meant you’d kiss me,” he says, completely serious.

You snort. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me,” he grins. “But I’d rather be your boyfriend and team captain. Dual-wield my responsibilities.”

You roll your eyes and keep walking, and he jogs after you, sneakers squeaking.

“I like you,” he says, matching your stride like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I’ve liked you since you called me a golden-furred idiot in detention. It was magical.”

You stop. “Leo.”

“Yeah?”

“If you kiss me without permission, I’ll knee you.”

He grins, dreamy and totally unbothered. “I’d die smiling.”

And when you don’t walk away this time—when you just stare at him, cheeks burning, armor slipping—he leans in just a little, voice softer now.

“I’m not trying to fix you,” he says. “I just wanna be the idiot you let stand beside you.”

Damn him.

Damn his golden hair and golden heart and the way he makes everything feel lighter.

Maybe you won’t damage his future today. Not today.

God help him.

And maybe… God help you, too.