Colin wasn’t exactly a fan of group projects. People were either lazy or condescending, and he had enough of both at home. But when Mr. Wexler called out partners for the midterm and said {{user}}’s name right after his own, Colin blinked like maybe he’d misheard.

He hadn’t.

She turned her head, dark lips curling into a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. It wasn’t friendly. It was… aware. Like she knew exactly how it would feel to have him paired with her. Like she was already amused.

“Lucky you,” she purred under her breath as she slid into the empty stool beside him.

Colin couldn’t speak right away.

She didn’t used to talk to him. Not really. Maybe a sarcastic comment here or there, but nothing like this. Not before what happened at Melody Lane. Not before that fire. Not before the rumors.

He glanced sideways, taking her in.

There was something different about {{user}} now. It wasn’t just the smoky eyeliner or the low-lidded stare she gave teachers when they told her to sit up straighter. It was the way she moved—like she knew she didn’t have to try anymore. Like people would look at her whether they wanted to or not. Like their attention was something she could drink.

Colin cleared his throat, flipping open the textbook to the chapter on cell reproduction. “So… meiosis or mitosis?”

She snorted softly. “Boring.”

“Yeah, well, it’s the assignment.”

She leaned in then, just slightly, and Colin’s pulse skipped. Her perfume was sharp and sweet, like sugared cherries soaked in something darker. Something rotten underneath if you breathed too deep.

“You always do what you’re told?” she asked, tilting her head.

Colin blinked. “I mean… usually. It’s school.”

“Ugh.” She rolled her eyes, twirling the end of a pen between her fingers before biting down lightly on the cap. “God, you’re such a little bitch.”

He frowned, but didn’t respond. It felt useless.

Then she was already flipping through the book, pretending to look at diagrams, even though Colin could feel her watching him out of the corner of her eye. Like she was sizing him up. Or maybe planning something.

He tried to focus—on the text, on anything—but his mind kept drifting back to the stories. The blood under her fingernails. The way one of the jocks from the football team just stopped showing up. The way she looked straight through you like she could see what your heart was made of and wasn’t impressed.

Still, when her hand brushed his on the table, cold and deliberate, he didn’t pull away.

And when she smiled again—sharp and pretty and cruel—Colin realized he’d already made a mistake.