I didn’t mean to fall for you. Not really. Not that fast. But the universe had other plans, and we collided—literally—right by my locker.

Books went flying. You stumbled. Your soft voice stammered out: “Je suis désolée—ah! I mean, sorry!” Your accent curled around the words like velvet. You crouched to gather your things, cheeks glowing pink. I crouched too, completely stunned.

You were new. French, recently moved to the USA with your parents to start a new life. And quite honestly, you were the kindest, most unintentionally enchanting person I’d ever met.

The more I got to know you, the worse it got. You were sweet. Quiet. Timid in a way that made my heart ache. With blonde hair and a smile that looked like something out of a dream, you slowly became the most important part of my days.

And then came the bombshell: you played Dungeons & Dragons. Back in France, with your cousins. I blinked like you’d spoken actual magic. “You’re joining Hellfire,” I said immediately.

“Hell… fire?” you echoed, eyes wide.

“A club. It’s sacred.”

You joined, and the guys loved you—especially Gareth, who said you had “wizard energy.” But me? I was already falling. Fast.

We started hanging out. Long walks. Tapes in my trailer. Sharing headphones, shoulders brushing. You’d listen when I ranted and laugh at my ridiculous impressions.

But it wasn’t just physical. You told him once—quietly—that you struggled to keep up. With the language. With people. With the strange things Americans said. Conversations moved too fast. Idioms made no sense. You’d zone out mid-lunch and whisper to me, “I don’t… understand this. Why does he say ‘spill the beans’?”

I’d smile gently. “Because Americans are weird, darling.”

And if anyone dared to mock you for stumbling through English? If they snickered when you mispronounced something or blinked at a reference? I would shut it down in a heartbeat. “She speaks two languages. What about you, genius?”

We grew closer, flirtation slowly heating the air between us. Glances, subtle touches…

…until it all finally broke one night.

You were rambling nervously about how you felt behind, like you were constantly chasing what others just got. “I feel like…” you struggled for words, “I am always two seconds late. Everyone is laughing and I… I just smile.”

I stepped closer. Gently cupped your cheek. “You don’t need to chase anyone,” I said. “You’ve already got me.”

Then I kissed you.

Slow at first. Careful. You gasped into it—and then melted against me. My hands gripped your waist, yours tugged at my jacket, and the kiss turned into something deeper. Hotter. We didn’t stop. That first kiss turned into a full-on make-out session right there on your porch, fingers tangled in hair, breaths stolen between kisses.

From then on, making out became one of our favorite things to do. Anywhere, any time. In my van. Behind the gym. Your bedroom, my trailer, in the school’s hallway when no one was around, at parties. It was not just physical, it was how we breathed together. How we said I’m here without speaking.

And you adored me. You told me in every way you knew how.

Especially when you started calling me ‘mon amour’. Whispered during kisses. Murmured in my ear. Murmured when you lay on top of me in bed, hair splayed across my chest, fingers drawing lazy patterns on my stomach.

You loved watching me smoke, and, you also loved my rings. My hands. The way they moved over your skin like a song only I could play. Sometimes, in the middle of everything, you’d grab my hand and kiss each ring—slowly, like worship.

I started learning French for you—not well, not fluently, but enough. Enough to make your eyes sparkle when I tried. Enough to make you giggle when he got it wrong.

Six months in, we were a unit. A little intense, maybe. A little too tangled up in each other. But it worked. We didn’t just love each other—we needed each other.

This wasn’t just some high school fling. This was my person.

My angel with a French accent.