Everyone warned Talia Lane about Luca Rivers before she even met him.
"He's the kind of boy your mother prays you stay away from," whispered Jenny from psychology class. "Tattooed arms, missing classes, fights in the parking lot…"
"Trouble"
That was the label stitched to his name in bold red letters. But no one ever told her about the quiet parts of him—the ones hiding between the cigarette smoke and smirk.
They never mentioned that Luca sat on the school rooftop during lunch to sketch clouds and buildings in a weathered sketchbook. Or how he waited until everyone else left the art room to clean up the paint trays. Or how he carried headphones but never used them, as if he wanted to hear the world, even when it hurt.
Talia noticed all of it.
She never meant to talk to him. She was quiet, invisible by choice. The girl with messy buns, oversized sweaters, and notebooks full of unfinished poems. But one Monday afternoon, during a thunderstorm that left the hallways buzzing with electricity and restless hearts, Luca slid into the empty seat beside her in art class like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"You don't paint like the others," he said, eyes fixed on her canvas. "They paint to impress. You paint to feel."
Talia froze mid-brushstroke, unsure if it was a line or a genuine observation.
"You've been watching me?" she asked, glancing sideways.
"Not in a creepy way," he said quickly, then smirked. "Okay, maybe a little."
That was the start.
He was magnetic in the way storms were—beautiful, dangerous, impossible to ignore. The more she learned, the deeper she fell. His favorite color was navy, not because of the sky or the ocean, but because it looked like peace and sadness had a child. He couldn't sleep with silence—had to play rain sounds or lo-fi beats. He hated small talk but would open up about galaxies and childhood wounds when no one else was listening.
They talked after class. Then after school. Then all the time.
One night, they sat on the bleachers behind the gym, wrapped in silence and hoodie sleeves. The moon was swollen and low, spilling silver light across the grass.
"Do you believe some people are born broken?" Luca asked suddenly.
"No," Talia said. "I believe some people are born into storms."
"And storms break things."
"Sometimes. But they also water gardens."
He looked at her like she was made of something rare. "How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Make everything sound like hope.
The first time he touched her hand, it was almost accidental. She handed him a charcoal pencil during class, and his fingers brushed hers. He held on half a second longer than necessary. She didn't pull away.
The first time he kissed her, it was raining. A soft, drizzly Tuesday in March. He had shown up at her locker soaked, furious at himself for getting into another fight—this time defending someone else.
"I get it," he said, jaw tight. "You don't have to deal with this version of me."
"I want all your versions," Talia whispered. And then, before he could argue, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.
It wasn't perfect. His lips were trembling. Hers were cold. But something clicked in the space between them. Like maybe they were two broken lines that made one whole shape