The wind nips at his cheeks, but Michael doesn’t budge. His hands are buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, sleeves tugged low to cover the faint bruising on his wrists. The school bell echoes from the towering marble gates, and a stream of pristine uniforms flood the front steps—polished shoes, laughter that sounds too clean, like nothing ugly’s ever touched them.

Then he sees her.

Hair catching the light. Books cradled against her chest. The only person in this whole damn city who looks at him like he isn’t something broken.

“Hey,” she greets softly, already smiling.

Michael shrugs like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t wait an hour early just to be sure he doesn’t miss her.

“You’re late,” he mumbles, though he knows she’s not.

She leans up and presses her nose lightly against his cheek in a shy, silly hello. “You’re early.”

“Shut up.” But he says it gently.

They start walking. His pace is always slower when he’s with her, like maybe if they walk slow enough, he can stall time. Her hand swings close to his—too close—and she brushes her pinky against his.

Michael freezes a little. Then, in a rare burst of boldness, he grabs her whole hand.

He doesn’t look at her when he says it. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Just tell me if I mess up, alright?”

She laughs, squeezing his hand tighter. “Okay. But for now? You’re doing okay.”

Michael clears his throat and tries not to grin. “…Dumbass,” he mutters.

But he doesn’t let go.

"So.. how was your day?"