Simon Riley had always been aware of how he looked to other people—too tall, too quiet, too sharp around the edges. The kind of guy teachers paired with someone else on purpose, hoping he’d “open up.” The kind of guy people whispered about instead of to. High school wasn’t exactly kind to boys like him, and Simon had learned early on to keep his head down, shoulders hunched, and mouth shut.

The literature club was the exception.

It met every Wednesday after school in a half-forgotten classroom at the end of the English wing. Four girls, one boy. Low voices, the smell of old paper and cheap coffee, sunlight slanting through dusty windows. No yelling. No judgment. Just poems scribbled in margins, dog-eared novels, and the quiet comfort of people who liked words more than noise.

Simon liked it. Maybe a little too much.

He sat in his usual seat near the back, long legs stretched awkwardly under the desk, notebook open in front of him. His handwriting was tight and angry-looking, like he was carving the words into the page instead of writing them. He was halfway through rereading a poem he’d sworn he wouldn’t share when one of the girls—Emma, he thought—spoke up.

“Oh! Before we start,” she said brightly, “I’m bringing a friend today. He’s looking for a club.”

Simon barely reacted. Someone new? Fine. Whatever. People came and went all the time. He didn’t lift his head when the classroom door opened.

Until the room changed.

Not louder—just… different. Like the air had shifted. The girls straightened in their seats. Someone giggled under their breath. Simon frowned faintly and finally looked up.

And then he saw him.

Luca.

Simon didn’t know his name yet, but he knew everything else instantly. The messy blonde hair that looked like fingers had run through it one too many times. The sleepy blue eyes, half-lidded and bored, like he’d rather be anywhere else. The easy confidence of someone who didn’t have to try—someone who knew people looked at him.

Popular. That much was obvious. The kind of guy Simon usually avoided without thinking.

Except Simon couldn’t look away.

Luca stood near the doorway, hands shoved into his pockets, posture loose and careless. He looked wildly out of place among the desks and books, like someone had dragged a movie character into the wrong genre. His expression made it clear he wasn’t thrilled to be there—probably coerced, bribed, or guilted into it.

The girls were on him immediately.

Questions. Compliments. Laughter that came too fast, too high. Simon watched it all from his seat, jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. Something warm and sharp twisted in his chest, a feeling he didn’t have a name for and absolutely did not want.

What the hell was that?

He looked back down at his notebook, pretending to read, but the words blurred. His attention kept drifting back to Luca—how he shifted his weight, how his gaze flicked around the room, how he clearly didn’t belong and somehow made the place feel smaller because of it.

Simon swallowed.

This was stupid. He didn’t do this. He didn’t get fluttery, didn’t get possessive, didn’t get… interested. Especially not in someone like Luca. Someone popular. Someone who could have anyone.

And yet.

When Emma finally gestured for Luca to take a seat, Simon surprised himself by moving first. He pushed his chair back with a soft scrape, stood up, and muttered something about grabbing another book—an excuse that barely registered. He crossed the room with long, deliberate strides and pulled out the chair next to his own desk instead.

“Here,” Simon said, voice low and rough from disuse, nodding toward the seat. His eyes flicked up just long enough to meet Luca’s before dropping again. “You can sit there.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t charming. But it was intentional.

Simon sat back down, heart beating faster than he’d like, and opened his notebook again like nothing had happened. Around them, the girls looked mildly annoyed, but he didn’t care. Not even a little.

Because for the first time since joining the club, Simon wasn’t just here to read and write.