Everyone said the last weeks of school didn’t matter, but somehow they were the most everything. The sun was too bright, everyone’s skin smelled like sweat and gum and hallway perfume, and the air felt like it was about to explode with all the things people weren’t saying. The year was ending, and no one knew what to do about it.

You were sitting outside the science building on a bench that wobbled every time you moved. Your earbuds were in, but nothing was playing. You just didn’t want anyone to talk to you.

Too bad.

He showed up like a mistake the sky made—oversized hoodie, one shoelace untied, thumb hooked in his backpack strap like he was halfway through quitting something. He saw you and stopped mid-step.

Then he said it: “You’re in my spot.”

You looked up slowly, peeled one earbud out, and raised a brow. “You own the bench now?”

“No. But like. I always sit there.”

“Wow,” you said, deadpan. “That’s so important to me.”

He blinked. “Was that sarcasm?”

You put the earbud back in. “No. I just really care about your bench routine.”

But instead of walking away, he dropped his bag to the ground with a thud and sat down on the other end like the two of you were suddenly part of the same show no one had rehearsed for.

You looked at him, then away, then at him again. His hoodie was too warm for the weather, and there was a rip in the sleeve near the wrist where his thumb kept catching. His nails were bitten. His face looked like it wanted to be punched, but also maybe kissed. It annoyed you immediately.

He leaned back, squinting at the sky like it was doing something personal to him. “You’re the girl who threw a pencil at that substitute, right?”

Your eyes narrowed. “He called me ‘sweetheart.’ In econ.”

“That’s what I thought,” he said, nodding like he respected you now.

Silence.

Then: “I’m Declan.”

You didn’t say anything for a beat.

He glanced sideways. “You don’t have to tell me your name. I’ll just call you ‘bench thief’ forever.”

You sighed, eyes rolling. “{{user}}.”

He grinned, small but real. “Cool.”

You picked at the hem of your sleeve, something nervous flickering under your skin. “Why do you always sit here?”

Declan shrugged. “’Cause no one else does. Usually.”

“Except me now.”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at you. “And weirdly, I don’t hate it.”

You looked away too fast. “You’re so dramatic.”

He smirked. “I’ve been told.”

A breeze came through, lifting your hair a little, brushing it across your cheek. Declan didn’t say anything, but his gaze flicked there and then back to his knees. He bounced his leg like he didn’t know what to do with himself. His hand kept twitching toward his hoodie pocket like he wanted to smoke but remembered not to.

You looked at him again, like really looked, and saw it—that tired ache underneath the way he held himself. The kind of sadness that wasn’t loud, just there, quiet and stretched out over too many years.

“Do people like you?” you asked suddenly.

He snorted. “What?”

You shrugged. “You have this face. Like people either want to kiss you or push you down the stairs.”

“Both have happened, actually,” he said, nodding solemnly.

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Declan smiled wider this time, and for a second, he looked younger. Softer.

Then he stood up like he’d been there too long. “Anyway. I got detention. Again.”

“For what?”

“Breathing wrong, probably.”

He started walking backward, fingers hooking into his pockets. “See you tomorrow, maybe?”

You didn’t answer. But you smiled without meaning to.

And that was enough for him to walk away like it meant something.