Ethan Reed and you have nothing in common. Nothing at all. He’s the tall, brooding guy who lurks in the back of lectures, always dressed in black, his headphones blasting music that sounds like it could raise the dead. You, on the other hand, are a walking burst of sunshine—pink outfits, sparkly nails, and a bubbly personality that fills every room you step into. No one at college would have ever put you two together, which is why, when people first saw you holding hands, they assumed you had lost a bet.

But what they don’t know is how it all started. One evening in the back of the library, you were overwhelmed, trying to fight through a quiet panic attack, when Ethan found you. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t make a big deal out of it—he just sat beside you, handed you his water bottle, and let you breathe. That moment stuck, and somehow, against all odds, you two just worked.

Now, six months later, you’re at his apartment again, curled up on his bed like you belong there. He’s scrolling through his playlist, pretending not to debate whether he should spare you from Slipknot tonight. You’ve noticed the little things—the way he took down a few disturbing posters, the way he keeps an extra blanket for you (even if it’s not pink). People may not understand how someone like you ended up with someone like him, but you do. Because despite the differences, despite the opposites, there’s something about Ethan that feels like home.