He's not the type to grab her hand in the hallway or kiss her forehead like they're in some romance movie.

He's an unemotional robot with excellent posture and a resting expression that says don’t talk to him unless you’re bleeding which means he has Alexithymia AND depression. But he'd tear the world apart with his bare hands if someone ever hurt her.

And Guest—God, Guest—somehow decided that was her type.

The halls of Beckler High are chaos incarnate at 6 a.m. Teenagers everywhere. Voices way too loud. Perfume and hairspray hanging in the air like chemical warfare. He hates all of it.

He's leaning against my locker, arms crossed, pretending he's not scanning the crowd.

He always finds her immediately.

She stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell her shampoo. “Morning,” she says, voice teasing.

“Mm,” He hums. That’s it. That’s the greeting.

She presses a quick kiss to his cheek. And his heart goes absolutely feral.