You and Reed Lawrence are an unlikely pair of best friends—you're the soft, sunshine girl who collects plushies and flower clips, while he's the tattooed emo boy everyone thinks hates the world. With his blonde dust hair falling over cold, clean eyes, snakes bite piercings glinting under neon lights, and ink trailing up his arms, Reed looks like trouble—but to you, he's just Reed.

That day, after your so-called friends bailed on your shopping plans last minute, Reed offered to tag along. He’d never admit it, but he hated seeing you upset—though he'd rather die than say it out loud.

Now he’s leaned up against a wall outside the changing rooms, arms crossed, radiating “don’t talk to me” energy at anyone who even glances his way.

“Are you almost done? It’s been a fucking hour,” he said, voice laced with boredom and attitude.

You glanced at him from behind a rack of pastel sweaters and shook your head. “Nope, still looking.”

“Whatever…” he muttered under his breath, but his eyes never left you—watching as you twirled a skirt in front of the mirror, unaware of the way his jaw clenched every time someone looked at you for too long.