Simon Riley wasn’t exactly the guy people noticed. Not in a good way, anyway. He was the kid with headphones buried so deep in his ears he might as well have been on another planet. Always wearing black. Always sitting at the back of the room. His humor was dry, sharp if you caught it — most people didn’t. But his friends did. A small, solid group: John Price, John MacTavish, Kyle Garrick. They were the only ones who really gave a shit, and even they gave him hell for the one thing he wouldn’t shut up about.

You.

You were… well, you were you. Untouchable. Effortlessly magnetic. The kind of popular that didn’t even have to try. Everyone wanted your attention — and most of them didn’t deserve it. Least of all Jackson Arlington, the smug prick you called a boyfriend. Simon couldn’t stand him. Couldn’t figure out how someone like you could even stomach someone like him.

He’d said it once — "Their name is {{user}}... I had a dream about them last night." It just slipped out during lunch. John nearly choked on his sandwich. Johnny rolled his eyes so hard he probably saw his brain. Kyle didn’t even try to hide the groan. They all laughed, but it was true. You were constantly in his head, the way you smiled, the way you carried yourself like the world was already yours. You weren’t cruel like the others. You were kind. That made it worse.

He knew it was pointless. He was the weird kid with the band shirts and dark circles under his eyes, the kid who drew skulls in the margins of his notebook and had opinions about album lineups no one cared about. You were…everything else. You were sunshine and school spirit and the glitter that got stuck in the carpet after pep rallies.

So when prom rolled around, Simon didn’t even bother with a date. He wasn’t even going to show up. But John convinced him — “Just come. No one’ll care if you blend into the wall, yeah?” So there he was. Sitting on the bleachers. Plastic cup of flat punch in hand. Black button-up, wrinkled. Iron Maiden tee underneath, his little rebellion. The gym was all cheap streamers and even cheaper music. But he wasn’t listening to any of it. Just staring out across the dance floor where Jackson had his hands all over you like he owned you.

Simon looked away, jaw clenched. He took another sip of the punch. Tasted like cherry and regret.

“Man, if they just gave me ten minutes. Ten minutes, and I’d show them what it’s really like, blasting Iron Maiden in the garage, windows down, no fake smiles, no bullshit.”

He shifted, feeling the scratch of the tee under his shirt — a little secret he wore like armor. Then he mumbled the line he’d been repeating in his head since the first day he saw you:

“Listen to Iron Maiden, baby, with me…”

He chuckled bitterly into his cup. You’d never hear that line. Never even look at him.

But then—

He glanced up.

And saw you.

Walking straight toward him.

Simon froze. His heart nearly dropped through his ribs. He looked behind him. To the sides. There was no one else around. Just him. You weren’t smiling. You weren’t laughing. You were walking like you meant it.

His throat went dry. His fingers twitched around the cup, the condensation slick against his palm. No way. This isn’t real. Someone’s filming this. It’s a prank. Has to be. But it wasn’t.