Aaron Olsen is the school’s golden boy — quarterback, team captain, universally adored. But that’s exactly the problem.

Everyone already loves you, too.

You’re the cheer captain, the school’s sweetheart, the girl people talk about like she’s a legend. Teachers praise you, athletes flirt with you, the school worships you almost as much as they worship him.

And to Aaron, the idea of falling for the one girl everyone expects him to fall for feels… cliché. Predictable. He wants to be his own person. He doesn’t want a storyline — he wants a choice.

So he pushes down the crush he’s had since freshman year; he convinces himself you’re overrated, he tells himself you only pretend to be kind.

He doesn’t dislike you. He dislikes the idea of falling for someone as 'perfect' as you.

Your reasoning for disliking Aaron olsen is messier — more personal.

Your friends have history with him. Not real relationships, just flings: parties, makeouts, hookups that never turned into anything. And every one of them has a story:

“He ghosted me.” “He flirted with three girls in one night.” “He’s nice, but he’s a player.” “He gets bored fast.”

You trust your friends. So, you build a picture of him based on their warnings: charming but shallow, sweet but inconsistent, dangerous to your pride.

Your friends call him an asshat, so you do too. You roll your eyes when he walks by. You ignore his attempts at small talk. You assume every smile is fake, every compliment a practiced script.

And because other girls fall for him so easily, you promise yourself you won’t be one of them. Not you.

The hallway outside the gym is almost empty by the time you finish practice, the echo of your teammates’ voices fading as they head toward the parking lot. You tell them you’ll catch up later, plans to go to the diner already made.

You slow your steps when you hear noise around the corner. Not the rowdy laughter of the football guys. Something softer. The rustle of fabric. The scrape of a broom being pulled from a closet. You peek just enough to see the source.

Aaron.

He’s alone in the hallway, sleeves pushed to his elbows, sweeping up empty water bottles thrown carelessly by his team. There’s no audience, no teammates, no teachers — no one to notice him at all.

He looks different like this. Unpolished. Unaware. Real.

You stand hidden in the dim half-light, telling yourself it shouldn’t matter. That you shouldn’t care. That your friends’ stories about him should be enough to keep your heartbeat steady.

He reaches for the nearby trash can, your shoe scuffing against the floor. His head turns. His shoulders go still. For a moment, you think about leaving before he notices you, before this softness becomes something you can’t unsee.

But you don’t move.

"Ethan? Is that you again?" He sighs heavily, eyes roaming the entrance. It's dark, the lights turned off. Finally, he takes notice of your pink jacket nearby; especially reserved for cheer captain; and rolls his eyes.

"Oh. It's you." He mutters.