Veronica had always been good at pretending.
Pretending that the whispers behind her back didn't sting. Pretending the late-night texts from boys who never wanted to hold her hand in daylight didn't bruise her. Pretending she didn't care when another boy chose someone safer—someone simpler.
She smiled through it all. Mascara never ran. Lip gloss always perfect. And when people said, "You're so strong, Veronica," she thanked them like it wasn't just a nicer way of saying you're used to disappointment.
But Scott Rivers… he wasn't like the others.
She first noticed him not by how he looked—though that part wasn't easy to miss—but by how he listened. In a world where most guys waited for their turn to talk, Scott actually heard her. That scared her more than she liked to admit.
It was a quiet Tuesday when everything started to shift.
Veronica sat alone on the bench outside Blackridge Café, her iced coffee mostly melted, phone untouched in her lap. She was staring at the horizon, thinking about how silence always reminded her of endings, when Scott slid beside her.
"You always stare like you're expecting the sky to write you a letter," he said, sipping his drink.
She didn't laugh. She didn't even look at him.
"Maybe I am," she muttered.
He didn't press. Just sat there. Quiet. Solid.
"Let me guess," she finally said, turning to face him. "You're going to ask me out, tell me I'm different, and then vanish in two weeks?"
His gaze didn't flinch. "You think I'm like them?"
"You're all like them."
Scott leaned back, stretching his arm behind her on the bench—not in that flirty way, but like he was making room for something real.
"I've seen the way you look at people, Veronica. You expect the worst before anyone's had a chance to prove anything."
"And you think you're an exception?" she bit back.
"I think," he said slowly, "you're not nearly as unbreakable as you want everyone to believe."
That did it. That cracked her.
Not all at once. Just a hairline fracture. But she felt it.
They sat in silence, the kind that held more meaning than small talk ever could. She didn't know what Scott was doing to her defenses, but it felt… dangerous. In the way that made you want to jump just to see if someone would catch you.
---
The next week, Penelope noticed the change.
Veronica was quieter, but not in the brooding way. She smiled at texts. She wore earrings. She hummed to herself. All signs that something—or someone—had slipped under her skin.
"What's going on with you?" Penelope asked as they walked the school hallway.
"Nothing," Veronica said too quickly.
"Oh, come on. You're practically glowing."
Veronica bit back a grin. "He's just… different."
Penelope smiled knowingly. "Scott Rivers?"
Veronica nodded. "I don't trust it."
"Why not?"
"Because I've been here before. Boys say the right thing, act all perfect, and then they leave. Always."
Penelope paused. "Maybe he's not leaving."
Veronica looked away. "I used to dream about the kind of love that felt like a movie. Fireworks. Music swelling. But all I got were deleted scenes. Half-finished promises."
Penelope linked arms with her. "Then maybe it's time for a new director."
---
Friday night came fast, and with it, Blackridge High's annual spring bonfire.
Flames danced against the navy sky, laughter echoing across the field. Penelope stood near the edge with Julian, sipping cider, when she saw them—Scott and Veronica—off near the tree line.
They were talking, their silhouettes outlined by the flickering firelight. Veronica's arms were crossed, guarded. Scott's hands were in his pockets, the way he always stood when he was nervous.
Penelope nudged Julian. "Watch."
Scott leaned in closer to Veronica. Not touching her, just close enough for her to feel it.
"I like you," he said plainly.
Veronica laughed, the sound bitter. "Everyone says that at first."
"I don't want to be your first," he said. "I want to be your last."
She turned to face him, eyes sharp with disbelief. "Why me?"
"Because I've seen your edges and I'm not afraid to bleed."
She opened her mouth, then closed it. A gust of wind picked up, sending strands of her hair across her face. He gently tucked one behind her ear.
"I won't promise I'll never hurt you," Scott whispered. "But I'll never do it on purpose."
Her lip trembled.
"I've been in love before," she said. "It's always been a mistake."
"Then let's be the exception," he said.
For the first time in years, Veronica didn't run.
She let him kiss her.
It wasn't perfect. Her lip caught on his. They bumped noses. She laughed into his mouth. But it was real. Honest. Not made-for-movie. Made-for-her.
---
Later that night, Veronica lay in bed, staring at her ceiling.
No texts from him. No "wyd" messages. No games.
Just a photo from earlier—her hand in his.
And a simple message:
> "When you're ready to trust, I'll be here."
Veronica smiled. Not the smile she wore in front of mirrors or Instagram selfies. The kind that came from knowing maybe, just maybe, the boy who wanted her heart didn't plan on breaking it.
Not this time.
Maybe it was always supposed to be Scott.
Maybe—just maybe—Veronica was finally the main character in her own love story.