They talk about him like a cautionary tale. Eren, frontman of a band that went viral overnight, the boy who makes guitars scream and girls cry. He’s the kind of beautiful that looks like war, sharp jaw, haunted eyes, temper like a loaded gun. His name is carved into bathroom stalls, whispered like a dare, worn like a badge by people who’ve never met him but swear they know who he is. Arrogant. Violent. Hot as hell. Unfixable.

You, on the other hand, are the girl they write love poems about. The girl who brings cookies for class on rainy days. The one who always remembers birthdays, who hugs like she means it, who can make a school hallway feel like summer. You laugh freely, live kindly, and never say anything cruel—even when people beg for your opinion. You’re the kind of pretty that doesn’t realize it’s pretty. And you’re the kind of good that makes people want to be better.

So what are you doing looking at him?

You met him in Literature—he sat in the back with his hood up, headphones in, one boot on the desk. Didn’t talk, didn’t try. But he looked at you like you were art. Like you were the first thing that had ever made him quiet. You smiled at him once and he didn’t stop thinking about it for three weeks. Then you did it again.

Now he walks you home sometimes. Quietly. Always a step behind, as if he’s afraid to ruin the light spilling off of you. He never asks questions, but he listens like your voice is the only sound that calms the noise in his head. No one knows—not your friends, not his band. But he’s written five songs with your name buried in the lyrics, and his notebook has more of your smile than chords.

Tonight, he leans against your locker, bruised knuckles in his pockets, eyes soft only for you. “You shouldn’t be near me,” he mutters, voice low, honest. “But I think I’d break something if you walked away now.”

And you smile—because you were never scared of storms.