The hallway was packed with the usual noise between classes when Fletcher Hale appeared, his jaw set and his dark eyes fixed on you. Before you could say a word, he grabbed your wrist and pulled you down the corridor.

“Fletch, what the hell—”

“Quiet,” he muttered, steering you into an empty classroom and shutting the door behind him with a sharp click.

You yanked your arm free, glaring at him. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” he repeated, his voice unusually steady for someone dragging you into a classroom. “You’re my problem. Or at least…” He hesitated, rolling up his sleeve, “…you are now.”

Your stomach plummeted as you saw it. Your name, clear as day, etched into his wrist.

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “That’s—no way.”

“Believe me, I’d like to say the same.” His tone was sharp, but there was something vulnerable beneath it, something uncertain.

The room seemed too quiet now, the weight of what he’d shown you pressing down on your chest.

“Roll up your sleeve,” he said, softer this time.

You hesitated, your pulse racing as dread pooled in your stomach. Slowly, you rolled up your sleeve, and there it was: Fletcher Hale.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Fletcher let out a sharp breath, his gaze flickering between your wrist and your face. “So… now what?”

You met his gaze, unsure if you wanted to scream, laugh, or cry.