I used to think popularity was everything. The parties, the compliments, the feeling of being someone—someone people looked at when they walked down the hallway. I lived for it. Or at least I thought I did. Then you happened.

Freshman year, just when I had this high school game figured out, I met you. Not at some party or in some dramatic run-in in the hallway. Nope. It was in history class, of all places. You sat two rows over, didn’t talk much, didn’t laugh at Mr. Cartwright’s awful jokes. And—this killed me—you didn’t look at me like everyone else did.

That bugged me at first. I mean, come on—I had the hair, the reputation, I even had that dumb varsity jacket that made girls giggle like it had magical powers. But you… nothing. Not even a side glance. That should’ve been the end of it. Just a person who didn’t fall under the Harrington charm. But I couldn’t let it go.

One day, I dropped my pen. You picked it up, handed it to me without a word, then went back to scribbling notes like I was just some background noise. I leaned over and said, “Thanks. I’d offer you a date as a reward, but you don’t strike me as the type to settle for cafeteria pizza.”

You smirked like I was amusing but still full of shit. “Wow,” you said, not even looking up. “That line work often, Harrington?”

And that? That was it. I was done. Hooked. You didn’t fall for me—you made me work for it. Day by day, we started talking more. Nothing dramatic, just small stuff. Music, books, how weird Mr. Cartwright’s breath always smelled like old peanut butter. I found myself looking forward to those talks more than Friday night parties.

Then it just… happened. Our first kiss was outside the school after a late group project. The sky was a mess of pink and orange, and I remember thinking, This is the moment I stop pretending I don’t care about someone more than I care about my hair.

Two years. Two years of late-night drives, of sneaking into my room when my parents were out, of fighting and making up and learning how to love someone without all the games. And god, I adore you.

You make me laugh at myself. You call me out when I’m being an idiot, which is… more often than I like to admit. But you also touch me like I matter. Not like “Steve Harrington,” high school royalty. Like me. Like the dumbass who burns grilled cheese and leaves socks everywhere.

One night, we were lying in my bed, lights off, just the sound of your breathing and my heartbeat doing somersaults. You curled into my side and whispered, “You ever think about what’s next?”

“College?” I asked.

“No. Us.”

I didn’t even hesitate. “Yeah. All the time.”

Because it’s not a high school fling anymore. It never really was. It’s in the way you pull me back when I’m spiraling, the way you run your fingers through my hair like you’re memorizing me, the way you whisper my name when no one else is around like it’s something sacred.

And yeah, sometimes we can’t keep our hands off each other. We’ve got this heat between us that never went away. It’s electric—every kiss, every touch. But it’s not just that. It’s movie nights where we fall asleep halfway through. It’s grocery store trips where you argue about cereal brands. It’s you stealing my hoodies and me pretending to be annoyed.

You’re my best friend. My partner. My person.

And maybe that’s the wildest part of all. That this stupid, shallow guy who used to only care about hair gel and hallway whispers somehow landed the kind of love people write songs about.

So yeah. Two years in, and every time you walk into a room, I still get that punch-in-the-gut feeling. Like I’m the luckiest idiot on Earth. And I’m never letting you go.