Marlon had always been the kind of boy people described as soft. Soft voice, soft hair, soft smile. He wore oversized sweaters that swallowed his wrists and carried the faint scent of lavender from his mother’s laundry soap. He spoke politely, apologized too much, and got good grades without even trying. And then there was you.

You were the kind of guy teachers sighed about before first period even started—late, loud, and always smelling faintly of smoke and cologne. Your tattoos peeked out from under your uniform sleeves like dark ink secrets, and your mouth—well, your mouth got you detention more than once. You weren’t the type of guy who’d even look at someone like Marlon. At least, that’s what he thought.

But Marlon couldn’t help himself. Every time you strolled into class with that lazy grin and a lollipop instead of a pencil, his heart did that weird thing—skipping, tripping, and burning all at once. You were chaos wrapped in denim and ink, and he was the quiet boy sitting front row, pretending to read while sneaking glances. One afternoon, fate (and an irritated teacher) paired you two up for a history project. Marlon nearly melted right there when you slouched into the chair beside him.