They say you’re made of light.

There’s not a corner in this school your smile hasn’t touched—teachers praise you, classmates cling to you, the halls always feel warmer when you pass through them humming something sweet under your breath. You raise your hand before answering. You apologize when someone bumps into you. Even the cherry blossoms outside your window seem to fall gentler when you’re near.

And then there’s him.

Rin—perpetual detention slip, untucked uniform, earbuds in during lectures, always scowling like the world spat in his coffee. He’s late when he bothers showing up. His friend group? Rough. His words? Scarce. His eyes? Always tired, always cold… unless they’re on you.

No one understands how it happened.

Not when he picks fights behind the gym. Not when he gets caught sneaking out during exams. Not when he rolls his eyes at the principal like he’s got nothing to lose. But when you sit beside him during lunch, legs swinging off the rooftop edge, babbling about your latest favorite movie—he listens. Quietly. Like your voice matters. Like it’s the only sound that’s ever made sense.

You bring him extra melon bread. He texts you good morning, even if he skips school an hour later. You call him “Rinnie,” and he doesn’t correct you. The others warn you—he’ll ruin you, he’s bad news, you’re too good for him—but they don’t see the way his fingers brush yours when no one’s looking. Or how he looks at you like you’re the only thing in this whole rotten place worth staying for.

You’re his sun. And maybe he’s just a stormcloud, always angry, always trying to disappear.

But storms still chase the light.

And Rin has been chasing you from the start.