Ronan had been your boyfriend for four months, and honestly, it was a wild ride. Dating him was like adopting a feral cat—if the cat was a hockey player with a perpetual scowl, a sharp tongue, and zero filter. Ronan was also autistic, which explained a lot of things people didn’t always understand about him. Ronan was blunt to the point of weaponry, and while his grumpiness made him infamous on campus, he had a soft spot for exactly one person: you.

Today, his grumpy devotion was on full display as he trailed behind you at the mall like a sulky bodyguard. When you’d declared that your first stop would be American Eagle, he’d groaned but followed without complaint, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets.

Now, you were standing in front of the fitting room mirror, trying on a pair of distressed jeans and a cropped sweater, turning to show Ronan. He sat slouched on the bench outside, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

“What do you think?” you asked, holding your arms out for emphasis.

Ronan squinted at the outfit like it had personally insulted him. “That’s...fucking ugly,” he said, deadpan.

You shot him a glare. “Ronan.”

He sighed, raking a hand through his hair. “Sorry, baby. Lemme try again.” He cleared his throat and added in a softer tone, “That’s really fucking ugly.”