I accept feedback, ideas, corrections and my apologies if the story sucks, this isn't my usual work and I don't normally post the love stories I write so I hope you like this, I recommend to read this while listening to a love song of your liking or one of this I recommend:

Heather - Conan Gray

It ain't me babe -Timothée Chalamet

Playground Love - Air

Songs - Adrianne Lenker (the album)

One of these or all, maybe not in this order but it's up to you!

They tell me this isn't good for me.

That you aren't good for me.

They say your past will catch up to us, like it's already running, like it knows exactly where we'll be standing when it does. They say I'll get hurt. That I'm too fragile for this kind of love. Sometimes they say it carefully, lowering their voices like I might shatter if they don't. Other times they don't bother softening it at all.

Maybe they're right.

I think about that more than I admit.

But they don't see you the way I do.

They don't see you in the hallway, standing next to me like it's the most natural place in the world, like you chose it without even realizing you were choosing anything.

I'm already annoyed about something—I don't even remember what exactly. Probably something dumb. Someone cutting in line. A teacher assigning homework like we don't already have enough. I'm ranting quietly, words tumbling over each other.

"I swear," I say, tugging my backpack higher on my shoulder, "if one more person bumps into me today, I'm actually going to lose it."

My best friend rolls her eyes. "You say that every single day."

"Because every single day people are annoying," I say, dramatic on purpose. "Why is everyone walking so slow? Pick a direction. Commit to it."

You snort before you can stop yourself.

I turn to you immediately. "Oh, so now you're laughing at me?"

"I didn't laugh," you say, already smiling. "I just... breathed."

"That was aggressive breathing," I tell you. "Basically an insult."

My best friend groans. "You two are unbearable."

I open my mouth to fire something back—something exaggerated, something dumb—and before I can finish it, she reaches over and lightly slaps the back of my head.

Not hard. Just enough to be annoying.

"Hey!" I laugh instantly, more surprised than anything, bringing my hand up. "What was that for?"

"You were about to say something stupid," she says, completely unapologetic.

And that's when it happens.

When my best friend shoves me playfully and I almost trip, you're there before I even laugh about it. Standing too close. Watching too closely. Your jaw tight, eyes dark, like you're ready to fight something that doesn't even exist.

"Hey," you say, sharper than before—not angry, just protective. "Don't hit her."

"It was a joke," she says, holding up her hands. "Relax."

I'm still laughing, shaking my head. "It's fine, really. I promise."

I look at you and soften my voice without thinking. "I'm okay."

You search my face like you're checking for something you might've missed. Then you nod. You don't step back though. You stay right there, closer than before, like you've already decided where you belong.

"Sorry," I mumble anyway, more out of habit than guilt.

My best friend smirks. "You apologize for everything."

I shrug. "I know."

You glance down at me, eyes warm now, that tension fading. "She really does."

"Hey," I say, pretending to glare. "Don't team up against me."

You laugh then—fully this time—and it feels like winning something small but important.

The bell rings. The hallway swells with noise again. We start walking, and you stay close. Not touching. Just there. Like it's understood.

It's nothing. Just a moment.

But it stays with me.

Later, at my house, everything feels quieter.

I kick off my shoes. You sit where I tell you to sit. I pick the movie because I always do. Horror—bloody, loud, unapologetic. You don't flinch. You never do. You just watch whatever I choose like that's part of the deal.

"This part's my favorite," I say, grinning.

"You say that every time," you reply, smiling without looking away.

Our shoulders touch. Then our legs. You don't move. You never do.

Your arm comes around me easily, like it's always known where to go. You hold me like you're proud to, like you want me to feel safe without having to say it out loud. Your thumb moves in slow circles on my arm, absentminded, gentle.

I lean into you, and for once my heart isn't racing. It's just there. Steady.

You kiss my forehead during a quiet scene. Then my cheek. Then my lips. Soft. Careful. You never rush. Never push. Your hands stay where they are, like there are lines you won't cross even when no one's watching.

It's not my body you're afraid of.

It's hurting me.

When you walk me to my door later, you hug me again—tighter this time.

"I had a good time," you say.

"Me too."

You hesitate, like there's more you want to say, but you don't. You kiss me once more and leave before I can stand there missing you.

At home, alone, I know what happens next.

I imagine you on your bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying everything like you're searching for something you did wrong.

Did I hug her too long?

Did my hand move too much?

Was that kiss okay?

That warm, golden version of you disappears when there's no one around to reassure you.

You care so much it scares me.

I call you even though I saw you just hours ago.

My phone feels heavy in my hand, like it knows I should let the day end where it did—your arms around me, your forehead against mine, that quiet see you later still sitting there.

But later feels too far away.

You answer on the second ring.

"Hey," you say, already smiling.

"Hey," I say, softer than I mean to.

We talk about nothing. The movie. The mall. The dog you saw dragging its leash like it was mad at the world. I laugh. You sound happy about that.

We fall into a silence that doesn't need fixing.

"I liked today," you say eventually.

"Me too..." I say, the word trailing off like I don't want to let it end.

There's a small pause. I hear you shift on your bed.

"When I got home," you say, a little hesitant, "my mom asked how it went."

I smile without thinking. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. She kept looking at me like she already knew the answer." You laugh softly. "My dad too. He was like, 'So?'"

"And?" I ask, even though my heart's already warm.

"I said it was good," you say. "Really good."

I picture you standing there in your kitchen, backpack still on, shoes half off, smiling to yourself while they watched. The image makes something ache pleasantly in my chest.

"They asked if I had fun," you continue. "If you were nice. If we ate. A bunch of stuff."

"That sounds like them," I say.

You hum. "I told them I kinda didn't want to go out again."

I frown slightly. "Why?"

"Because I would've rather stayed," you say quickly. "Like... just stayed there. With you. Watching another movie or doing nothing."

My chest tightens.

"I would've liked that," I admit. "I didn't really want the day to end either."

"Yeah," you say, quieter now. "Me neither."

The silence that follows isn't heavy. It's comfortable. Like we're both holding the same thought and don't want to move it too much.

"I kept thinking," you add after a moment, "about the way you laughed. Like when I said that dumb thing about the dog."

I smile into my pillow. "You mean when you embarrassed yourself?"

"Exactly," you say. "I liked that you laughed anyway."

"I always laugh with you," I say. Then, softer, "Even when I don't mean to."

You don't answer right away. I can almost feel you smiling on the other end.

"I wish I could rewind today a little," you say. "Just to stay in the middle of it longer."

"Yeah," I whisper. "That part was nice."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"You tired?" you ask gently.

"A little," I admit. "But I don't want to sleep yet."

"Me neither," you say. "But we probably should."

"Probably."

Neither of us moves to hang up.

"I'll see you tomorrow," you say finally, like you're setting something down carefully.

"Yeah," I say. "Tomorrow."

"Good night," you say.

"Good night," I reply.

We hang up slowly, like we're both making sure the other is really gone.

My room feels warmer after. I set my phone beside me instead of plugging it in, like it might still hold your voice if I keep it close.

Outside, the breeze moves through the trees, carrying that soft, sweet smell of flowers I can't see.

And I fall asleep thinking maybe this—this quiet, careful love—is already more than enough.