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Ashlyn hated spring.
The sun got too bright, the pollen made her sneeze, and people got weirdly enthusiastic about things like picnics and pastel clothes. Worst of all, spring meant the annual Spring Festival Planning Committee, which, somehow, she’d been voluntold to join.
“I don’t like people,” she told Ms. Ramirez when she was handed the clipboard.
“You like painting. And this needs painting.”
Ashlyn scowled. “This is extortion.”
But no amount of scowling prepared her for walking into the first meeting and seeing him.
Aiden Clark. Tall, dyed-blonde hair (currently a bit too golden under the cafeteria’s flickering light), red contacts that made him look like he belonged in a vampire movie. He leaned casually against the table, tossing a stress ball into the air like he didn’t have a single worry in the world. He spotted her instantly.
“Ash! You came!” he beamed.
She didn’t respond.
His smile widened anyway. “You can sit by me. I saved you a spot.”
She glanced at the empty seat beside him, then at literally every other empty seat in the room. Her glare spoke volumes. She sat three chairs down.
Unfazed, he scooted one seat closer.
“I’m the committee chair,” he said like it was something to be proud of. “We’re gonna make this year’s festival awesome. I’ve got a spreadsheet. Do you wanna see it?”
“No.”
He showed her anyway.
Over the next few weeks, the committee meetings became the one thing Ashlyn didn’t completely loathe.
Not that she’d ever say that.
She was still grumpy. She didn’t talk unless necessary, and when she did, it was with deadpan sarcasm and brutal honesty.
But Aiden? He never flinched.
He’d wave when he saw her in the halls, even if she ignored him. He’d bring her iced tea to meetings with exactly one sugar packet, and act like it was a coincidence. He started walking her home from school—said it was "on the way," even though she knew it wasn’t.
One night, after painting festival signs way too late in the art room, Ashlyn caught him humming to himself while organizing glitter pens by shade.
“You’re like a damn cartoon character,” she muttered, dipping her brush into black paint.
He grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“You wear red contacts. On purpose.”
“They match my vibe.”
“Your vibe is chaos.”
“You’re not wrong.”
She rolled her eyes and tried to hide the way her mouth twitched upward.
He called her Ash. Sometimes Ashy, which made her want to throw things at him, but she never actually did.
Once—only once—he called her dandelion.
It was when her freckles started darkening in the sun, and she’d been biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling at something he said. He leaned close, so close she could smell his stupid shampoo, and said:
“You ever see a dandelion try not to bloom?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You remind me of one. All thorny at first, and then—bam. Sunshine.”
She had no idea what to do with that, so she kicked his shin under the table.
He didn’t stop smiling.
The night of the festival, everything went wrong.
The sound system shorted out. The food truck guy cancelled. Someone forgot to bring the raffle tickets. Aiden had been running around since 6 AM, and by 7:30 PM, he was gone.
Ashlyn found him sitting behind the gym, hoodie pulled up, elbows on his knees.
“Didn’t know golden boys had nervous breakdowns,” she said, standing awkwardly beside him.
He didn’t look up. “I really wanted it to go well. For everyone.”
Ashlyn hesitated, then sat beside him. The silence stretched.
“Hey,” she said finally. “You don’t have to shine all the time, you know.”
He glanced at her, surprised.
“I see you,” she added, quieter. “Even when the lights are off. Even if you're not shining like a sunshine.”
Aiden looked at her like she’d just handed him the moon.
Then, slowly, carefully, he reached over and nudged her pinky with his.
She didn’t move away.
The lights eventually came back. The crowd returned. The raffle was salvaged.
And Ashlyn found herself dragged onto the stage by Aiden as he grinned at the mic and shouted, “We couldn’t have done this without our amazing team—especially Ashlyn, who painted literally everything and didn’t stab me once!”
She groaned and covered her face with her hands, but when he grabbed her wrist and twirled her once (too fast), she laughed.
Just a little.
He caught it.
He beamed.
Later, walking her home, he brushed their hands together again. She didn’t stop him when his fingers curled around hers.
“You’re in my way,” she mumbled.
“Is that your way of saying you like me?”
She paused. Looked at him sideways.
“Maybe.”
He squeezed her hand. “Cool. I like you too, Ashy.”
“Call me that again and I’ll set you on fire.”
“You’d miss me.”
“…Don’t make me prove you wrong.”
But her hand stayed in his.
And her smile, just barely, bloomed like spring.