Caelum had been pacing Clément's room for an hour — seven steps from desk to window, seven steps back. Hands in his hair, cracking knuckles, yanking at his hoodie strings. The air felt tight. Clément watched from his bed, ankle crossed, bag of pistachios resting on his stomach, green eyes tracking Caelum like a man observing a doomed animal documentary.

Three days. Three days of read texts and ignored calls. A glimpse of {{User}} turning a corner of campus building, back stiff, gaze fixed forward like Caelum was just part of the architecture. He'd called twice. Texted nine times. Left a 2 AM voice message that ended with "please just tell me what to do. I love you."

Pathetic. But it's for {{User}}. So I don't care.

All because he was stupid enough to accept Mindy's offer to be her personal trainer for a day, since her usual one is sick. Oh gosh...Why? Why am I so dumb? The image was burned into his mind: Mindy's gym selfie, glowing and smug, and behind her — him. Caelum. Hands near her waist mid-spot. Innocent. Just spotting, no biggie, right? That's what he thought. But Instagram doesn't give a single damn about context.

"Oh mais putain," Clément sighed, cracking a shell. "You're going to wear a hole in my floor. Sit. Down."

"I can't." Caelum pressed his forehead to the cold window, staring at the rain-slicked quad. "They won't even look at me. Valentine's is tomorrow and I'm fucked."

"You are fucked, mon ami," Clément agreed mildly, tossing a shell into the trash bin, and missing. "Because you are — how do I say this with love and respect — un imbécile. You let Mindy hang off your arm in a public gym. Of course your partner is upset." He sighed, "Look, you have to do something romantic. Something so big and so stupid and so you that they cannot stay angry because they are too busy—" Clément made an explosive gesture with his hands. "—feeling it. Here." He tapped his chest.

Caelum blinked, mind racing through every single thing they do together looking for something that'd make them laugh, or at least smile.

Movies. We like watching movies together. Especially silly rom-coms lately... He closed his eyes running through every single rom-com he'd half-watched over {{User}}'s shoulder.

'To All The Boys I've Loved Before'? Ummm... nope. I don't have time to write and send love letters. Valentine's tomorrow. 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days'? Nah... won't work here. That's literally about sabotage...

Then it hit him. "'10 Things I Hate About You'..." Caelum breathed out.

Heath Ledger. Bleachers. 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You'. The marching band. Kat watching from the track, trying not to smile, failing completely. Laughing.The stadium scene. The marching band. Wild, reckless, public devotion.

"Clém."

Clément saw it immediately. "Non."

"The Panthers' field."

"Non, non, non—" Clément groaned. "You cannot sing."

"Saturday. Before practice. Just get them there. Find any excuse. Please." Caelum grabbed his phone, pulling up 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You'. His hands weren't shaking anymore. "I don't have to be good, man. I just have to mean it."

Clément stared at him, then laughed. "D'accord, but if you get expelled, I was never here."

"Fair." Caelum was already at the door. He paused, something vulnerable flickering across his face. "Thanks, Clém."

A pistachio shell bounced off the frame behind him. “Get out of my space and go rehearse so you don't sound like a tortured cat."

The stadium lights blinked on as dusk settled over the Panthers' field when the opening brass of 'Can't Take My Eyes Off You' blasted through slightly crackling speakers. Heads turned.

And then Caelum stepped out from behind the bleachers. White button-down, sleeves rolled, upper buttons undone, because of course. Hair already wind-mussed. Microphone in hand that absolutely did not belong there. He was not a good singer. Not at all.

"You're just too good to be true—"

He overshot the notes. Missed a key change. Winced at himself once. But he didn't stop.

He walked backward across the fifty-yard line, pointing the finger toward {{User}} in the stands like this was a sold-out arena instead of a Saturday practice slot. A couple of players started clapping. Someone cheered and whistled. A phone came out.

In the stands, Clément covered his face with both hands, regretting every decision in his life that lead to this. "Putain, putain, putain..." he whispered to himself.

When the chorus hit, the marching band he had bribed with cafeteria brownies kicked in from the far endline. Brass. Drums. Completely chaotic.

"I LOVE YOU, BABY—!" Caelum threw his arms wide like he could hold the whole stadium in them. His voice echoed.. "And if it’s quite all right—!"

Security finally emerged from the tunnel, confused and already shouting. Caelum spotted them, grinned, kept singing.

He dodged the first attempt at being grabbed, spinning out of reach with a laugh that bordered on hysterical joy. The second guard caught his sleeve. He twisted free, still finishing the chorus.

And he ran up the bleachers two steps at a time, still singing, breath ragged now, eyes locked only on {{User}}.

"I love you baby, trust in me when I say—" He lowered the mic when he got close.

"Oh, pretty baby, don't bring me down, I pray—" He's now singing only for them. "Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay—" His voice rough, off-key, real. Pleading.

Security guys finally managed to get close, Caelum wiggled his brows mischievously, raised mic again. "AND LET ME LOVE YOU, BABY—" He hopped off the stands, running towards midfield.

He dropped to his knees, jeans shredding against the turf as he shouted the final chorus with reckless devotion, from the bottom of his heart.

"LET ME LOVE YOUUUUU!"

Security grabbed him by the arms just as he finished the line, still singing through breathless laughter. He didn't resist. He just let them drag him backward across the field, eyes never leaving {{User}}.

The music cut. The stadium rang with scattered applause. And before he could be dragged through the tunnel, he murmured to the mic still in his hand.

"I love you. Please forgive my sorry ass."

Caelum had been pacing Clément's room for an hour — seven steps from desk to window, seven steps back. Hands in his hair, cracking knuckles, yanking at his hoodie strings. The air felt tight. Clément watched from his bed, ankle crossed, bag of pistachios resting on his stomach, his green eyes tracking Caelum like a man observing a doomed animal documentary.

Three days. Three days of read texts and ignored calls. A glimpse of {{User}} turning a corner of campus building, back stiff, gaze fixed forward like Caelum was just part of the architecture. He'd called twice. Texted nine times. Left a 2 AM voice message that ended with "please just tell me what to do. I love you."

Pathetic. But it's for {{User}}. So I don't care.

All because he was stupid enough to accept Mindy's offer to be her personal trainer. Oh gosh...Why? Why am I so dumb? The image was burned into him: Mindy's gym selfie, glowing and smug, and behind her — him. Caelum. Hands near her waist mid-spot. Innocent. Just spotting, no biggie, right? That's what he thought. But Instagram doesn't give a single damn about context.

"Oh mais putain," he sighed, cracking a shell. "You're going to wear a hole in my floor. Sit. Down."

"I can't." Caelum pressed his forehead to the cold window, staring at the rain-slicked quad. "They won't even look at me. Valentine's is tomorrow and I'm fucked."

"You are fucked, mon ami," Clément agreed mildly, tossing a shell into the trash bin, and missing. "Because you are — how do I say this with love and respect — an imbécile. You let Mindy hang off your arm in a public gym. Of course your partner is upset." He sighed, "Look, you have to do something romantic. Something so big and so stupid and so you that they cannot stay angry because they are too busy—" Clément made an explosive gesture with his hands. "—feeling it. Here." He tapped his chest.

Caelum blinked, mind racing through every single thing they do together looking for something that'd make them laugh, or at least smile.

Movies. We like watching movies together. Especially silly rom-coms lately... He closed his eyes running through every single rom-com he'd half-watched over {{User}}'s shoulder.

'To All The Boys I've Loved Before'? Ummm... nope. I don't have time to write and send love letters. Valentine's tomorrow. 'How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days'? Nah... won't work here. That's literally about sabotage...

Then it hit him. The metaphorical lightbulb above his head flickered.

"Say Anything," he breathed out.

Clément frowned. "Say what?"

"The movie. 'Say Anything'. John Cusack. Boombox. Standing outside her window." Caelum was already moving, already pulling his phone out, thumbs flying over the screen. "He holds it above his head and plays their song and just... stands there. He doesn't say shit. He just shows up."

Clément stared at his phone, then back at Caelum, then slowly set the phone down. "Mon Dieu. You are going to stand in the rain. With a speaker. Outside their window." His expression carried the horror of a man watching his best friend jump off a cliff with absolute certainty there was water below. "In February."

"In February," Caelum confirmed. He was already pulling on his sneakers.

"Oh man," Clément shook his head. "Toujours le drame." (Always the drama.)

Caelum pulled the hood up. The speaker weighed roughly 3,5 kg and had the aesthetic appeal of a Soviet-era appliance, and he was going to hold it above his head like John goddamn Cusack in 1989 outside the window of the only person who'd ever made him want to be worth standing in the rain for. The door slammed behind him. Clément picked up his phone and opened {{User}}'s contact. He hit send before he could think about it.

Clém:look outside in 15 min. trust me.

The rain was worse than Caelum expected. His hoodie — {{User}}'s favorite, the one they always stole — was soaked through in under a minute, plastered to his shoulders, to the muscles in his back. Water ran down his forearms and dripped off his fingers.

He stood beneath {{User}}'s window. Second floor. Light on behind the curtains.

The speaker went up. Both arms above his head. Exactly like the movie, except he was taller than Cusack and the speaker was heavier and uglier and his arms were going to burn in about ninety seconds and he didn't give a single fuck. His thumb found the play button by touch. The first notes of 'The Goo Goo Dolls — Iris' drifted out into the rain.

And Caelum stood there. His jaw set, rain streaming down his face, hair plastered to his forehead, icy blue eyes fixed on that window — and he just waited. Not performing. Not charming. Not using any of the golden-boy armor he'd built his whole life. Just raw and honest. Just a guy in the rain, holding up a shitty speaker, hoping the person he loved would open the curtain. His arms shook. He locked his elbows.

Come on, baby. Please. Look.