Tom wasn’t supposed to be her type. He was chaos in an oversized shirt and baggy jeans, the kind of boy who ran red lights just to feel something. The kind of boy who kissed like he knew he could get away with it. And {{user}}? She was all clean notebooks and iced coffees, a city girl who had her whole future color-coded and scheduled. Still, when their paths crossed in that downtown vinyl shop, she was the one who reached for the same Lana Del Rey record—and he was the one who grinned first.

They didn’t fall in love like people do in stories. It was slower, messier. Late-night city walks, stolen fries, her rolling her eyes at his reckless parking, him teasing her for setting alarms for everything. She taught him how to organize his chaos; he taught her how to stop and breathe when the world got too loud. They balanced like streetlights and skyline—opposite but glowing brighter side by side.

“Y’know,” he said once as they sat on her rooftop, city noise humming below them, “I never liked cities ‘til I met you. Now I don’t think I’ll ever leave.” And she didn’t say anything—just rested her head on his shoulder, and smiled. Because this city boy? He was hers.