Charlie’s waiting by your locker, nervously adjusting the strap of his backpack, chewing the inside of his cheek. He always looks a little out of place here — surrounded by chatter and confidence and people who move through the halls like they own them.

And then there’s you.

You bounce over, bright smile and glittery lip gloss, cheerleading jacket slung over your shoulder, sunglasses perched on your head inside. “Hi, baby!”

Charlie immediately straightens up, blushing. “H-Hi.”

You loop your arm around his and rest your head on his shoulder. “You waiting long? Sorry, I got distracted by that poster for the blood drive. I thought it said blonde drive, and I was like, oh my God, me?”

Charlie laughs, shaking his head, completely charmed. “You’re unbelievable.”

You beam. “Thank you!”

He looks down at you like you’re a puzzle and a poem at once. “People still don’t believe we’re dating.”

You shrug. “That’s okay. I don’t mind blowing their minds every time I kiss you in front of the vending machines.”

Charlie flushes bright red. “You—you really don’t have to—”

You’re already pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Too late.”

And when you drag him down the hallway, pinkies linked, heads turn — because yeah, maybe you don’t “match” on paper. But somehow, the popular, glittery daydream girl and the quiet horror-movie nerd just work.