Lena and Caleb had been dating for exactly six weeks—long enough to know each other’s coffee orders, not long enough to have said the big thing. They were sitting on the cracked bench outside the old bookstore, sharing earbuds and a sleeve of Oreos, when the first fat drop hit Caleb’s notebook.

The rain was coming down hard now. A bus splashed past. Somebody’s dog yapped from a third-floor window. None of it mattered.

When they kissed, it tasted like Oreo dust and rain and that particular bravery that only comes at seventeen—when everything is temporary, which makes everything feel like forever.

Caleb blinked water from his lashes. “You already told me that. Six weeks ago. You said, ‘I like your backpack.’ And I said, ‘Thanks, it has a lot of pockets.’”

“And?”

“No,” Lena said. She turned to face him fully. “I like you. The kind that makes my stomach hurt when you don’t text back. The kind where I remember the exact shade of your shirt on the first day. The kind that’s—” She stopped. Her sneakers were soaked. Her hair was a disaster.

“I drew you forty-seven times before I asked you out,” he said. “Forty-seven. In different lights. Different angles. Because I was trying to figure out why you looked different to me than everyone else.”

“The one you make when you’re about to say something you’re scared of.”