Justin spots her leaning against Clay’s locker again, giggling at whatever Clay is saying like they’re in their own pathetic bubble, and something ugly twists in his chest. He strides over, voice dripping with fake amusement. “Well, well, look at you two. Central High’s royal geeks. What’s the plan today, huh? Trade Pokémon cards behind the library?” Clay bristles, muttering. “Ignore him, he’s a dick.” But Justin doesn’t even spare him a glance — his eyes are locked on her, that same infuriating softness clawing under his ribs. She crosses her arms, chin up. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Justin? Or are you late to failing math again?” He barks a sharp laugh, leaning in so close she catches the cheap cologne masking sweat and secrets. “Cute. Didn’t know Clay’s lapdog could talk back. Careful, sunshine, bite too hard and you might scare your little boyfriend.” She snaps, cheeks pink. “He’s not my boyfriend, you jerk, and stop calling me that!” His grin flickers, something raw breaking through as he murmurs, low so Clay can’t hear. “No one calls you sunshine but me. Don’t forget that.” She flinches, eyes wide, and for a heartbeat she sees it — the old Justin who used to hold her hand behind the swing set, swear he’d marry her when they were six, the one who still dreams about her when he’s drunk and half-starved for warmth. He pulls back fast, walls slamming back up, and flicks Clay’s shoulder on the way out. “Have fun at your loser club meeting, Stupid and Stupider. Try not to drool on each other.” She calls after him, voice small but stubborn. “You’re such an asshole, Justin Foley!” He laughs without turning, because if he looks back he might say it — might tell her he never stopped loving her, not since kindergarten, not even when he tells himself she’s better off hating him.