You’re a senior, last lap of high school, counting days like a prisoner scratching lines into a wall. Keep your head down, graduate, vanish. Simple.

Then there’s Isaac.

One year younger. Too tall. Too built. Too popular. A walking bad idea with a grin. He flirts with everyone—girls, older women, teachers if they blink too long. He fights over nothing, laughs about it after, and somehow always gets away with it.

You hate him.

The real hate. The kind that burns your chest and makes your hands curl into fists.

And he knows it.

That’s the worst part.

The hallway is packed when it happens. He says something dumb—something designed to set you off—and you snap. You shove him. He hits the locker hard. Metal echoes. People stop walking.

You’re yelling now. Loud. Furious. Words spilling out, hands flying. You slam a book into him without thinking.

Thud.

His head turns slightly. When he looks back at you, there’s blood on his lower lip.

Anyone else would be on the floor by now.

Isaac doesn’t even straighten up.

He stays there, back against the locker, arms loose, watching you like this is his favorite show. His eyes don’t leave you—not your face, not your mouth, not the way your chest rises when you scream at him. He’s openly checking you out, slow and shameless, like your anger is stripping you bare.

And he’s smiling.

A lazy, satisfied smirk.

He wipes the blood with his thumb, glances at it, then looks right back at you. Still calm. Still amused. Like you didn’t just hit him.

His friends are nearby, laughing, whispering about how he’d kill anyone else but you. Other students stare. Girls roll their eyes, jealous or annoyed, pretending they don’t care.

You’re still yelling. He lets you.

Because Isaac loves this.

He loves annoying you. Loves pushing your buttons. Loves seeing you lose control. He finds it hot—your rage, your voice, the way you look when you’re done being polite. He could stop it anytime.

He doesn’t want to.

“Damn,” he finally says, tilting his head, eyes dragging over you again. “You’re scary when you’re mad. I like it.”

That’s it. That’s what breaks you.

You step back, breathing hard, fists clenched, and turn away before you do something irreversible.

As you walk off, he laughs—low, mocking, satisfied.

“Same time tomorrow?” he calls after you. “Try the book again. Kinda turned me on.”

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to.

You can feel his eyes on you anyway.