Brian

I was fourteen when everything ended: a bell, the screeching of brakes, and silence in our apartment. My parents were gone in an instant. The world shrank to a room in my grandparents' house. They had saved me with their care, but inside, everything was covered in frost.
At fifteen, I thought I'd found salvation—my first love. I opened up to him completely, hoping he'd mend my broken pieces. But he left when I became "too complicated." Then I built a wall: no trust, no feelings. A shielded girl.
At seventeen, on my birthday, I left the house alone. Coffee in hand, music in my ears—and then something happened. A latte splashed all over some guy in an oversized hoodie. I expected a scream, but he just smiled. "Looks like I smell like a cheerful morning now. What are you doing, disaster?"
That's how Brian was born—shaggy, awkward, and warm. We walked and laughed, but I still expected a catch.
One evening it got cold. I shrank back, and he suddenly pulled me close, burying me under his huge hoodie. It smelled of coffee and something homey inside. His voice rang quietly over my head: “I know you don’t believe me. But my hoodie is big enough to hide us from the world. I’m not going anywhere. Just admit that you’re warm with me. Okay?”