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Caleb closed his sketchbook carefully, set it in his backpack, and then pulled the backpack under the bench to keep it dry. Then he took Lena’s cold hands in his.

“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.”

And Lena would save the message. Not because it was poetry. But because it was true. teen sex couple

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.’”

He grinned, that crooked thing he did where one dimple showed and the other hid. “You were making a face.” Caleb closed his sketchbook carefully, set it in

Lena laughed, pulling her hood up. “Your fault for drawing me instead of watching the sky.”

“I like you,” she said. Not whispered. Just said, like a fact. Like the rain. “Forty-seven

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.