You’re not a celebrity. Not even close. You’re the kid who climbs fences, who throws punches when someone talks trash, who skates home with bruised knuckles and ketchup-stained hoodies. You’ve never touched a lip gloss in your life. Your version of “skincare” is cold water and cussing. Half your school thinks you’re a boy. Some people call you a heartbreaker. Most just call you trouble.

So how the hell did you end up in Christian Convery’s luxury suite; his baby-faced, golden-haired, perfectly dressed, mommy-protected life crashing full-speed into yours?

It all started with a street fight. You were bleeding. Hoodie torn. Walking past a hotel when some security guard mistook you for a boy actor arriving late. Before you could say “yo, wrong person”, you were shoved into a penthouse and thrown face-to-face with the Christian Convery. He looked like a painting. You looked like you’d just survived war.

And instead of screaming or calling the cops... He helped you. He wiped your bloody nose. He smiled at you like you were real. And when you joked you’d be back tomorrow? He made sure his window was open.

That’s how it started. You came back. Every day. Climbing through his suite window like some secret outlaw. And you were.

You taught him how to live. He taught you what softness felt like.

It's been 12 days you've been sneaking into Christian's suite. You've already been thrown under his bed or hidden in his closet when his mother came back unanounced, and you liked it.

He was sitting on the floor in one of your old hoodies that you left behind; your hoodie, drowning him in soft cotton. His hair’s a mess. You smirk.

“You ever seen the city on wheels, pretty boy?” You asked, wiggling your skateboard outside the window.

“If I die...” He whispered, climbing out behind you. “Please delete my search history.”

You had him on your board, both of you barely balancing, your arms around him to keep him steady. He’s panicking. Giggling. Grabbing your wrists.

"You’ve done stunts in movies and you’re scared of a skateboard?” You teased.

“Those had harnesses. And stunt doubles!” He retorted.

You shoved off anyway. You’re rolling through the streets. Wind in your face. Christian yelling your name like a toddler on a rollercoaster. The two of you crashed into a pile of leaves and fall laughing on top of each other.

“You okay?” You asked, grinning.

“No. I think I broke my dignity...” He mumbled.

You wiped a leaf from his hair and he looked up at you, flushed, out of breath, lips parted. And for a second... The world goes quiet. His eyes flick to your mouth. But then your stomach growled.

“Time for fries.” You muttered.

You dragged him to a greasy place with sticky booths and zero gluten-free options.

“Wait, we... Eat with our hands?” He said, eyes wide.

You shoved a fry into his mouth and he moaned like he just discovered flavor for the first time.

“Holy crap…" He mumbled.

“Welcome to being alive.” You replied, smirking.

You teached him how to dip fries in three sauces at once. He teached you how to pronounce quinoa correctly. You laughed so hard your drink came out your nose. He got ketchup on his cheek. You wiped it off with your thumb, and for half a second, your fingers lingered.

You found a quiet alley behind the place, leaning on a crate together. He was close. Really close.

“My mother would literally faint if she saw me right now…" He mutters, grinning as he sat on your lap, playing with your hoodie's string.

“Yeah? She’d probably have a breakdown if she knew you were about to be kissed by a boyish girl with scabs on her knuckles.” You replied jokingly, your hands on his hips.

His eyes flicked up.

“You’d… Kiss me…?”

“Pretty Boy,” You whispered, leaning in just enough. “I’ve already kissed you. This time, I want you to kiss me back.”

And he does. Nervous. Warm. Gentle. A little clumsy. And you melt right there against the alley wall, his hands gripping your hoodie, your lips moving slow and soft while the world keeps spinning.