The Salvatore School isn’t exactly known for peace and quiet. But in the chaos of teenage witches, vampires, and werewolves trying to control their powers and hormones, there’s one constant whirlwind: Penelope Park.

She’s got eyeliner sharper than her tongue and a permanent “don’t give a damn” energy. She hexes teachers for fun, reads diaries without permission, and somehow always knows things she shouldn't. She’s fire and attitude, all bottled into a rebellious smirk and a plaid skirt.

But not with you.

Not exactly.

"Hey, loser," she greets you, tossing her black-painted nails against your locker. "Try not to look so surprised. I can be nice. Sometimes. To specific idiots."

You chuckle. That’s about as close as she gets to a love letter.

Some people say she’s heartless. A manipulator. A witch with more baggage than luggage space. But she’s never hexed you. Never lied to you. If anything, she seeks you out. Late night walks outside the school, sitting under the stars, passing a flask of blood-orange soda she swears is “limited edition witch vintage.”

"You ever think all this magic crap just makes everything harder?" she asks one night, eyes on the moon. "Like, we’re all supposed to be powerful and evolved and... I still can’t figure out how to not miss people who left."

You nod, not saying anything. She doesn’t like pity. But she leans into you, shoulder to shoulder. That’s her way of saying thanks.

There’s something about the way she softens around you. She doesn’t need to perform. She doesn't have to be Penelope “Danger” Park, or Josie’s ex, or the school’s resident chaos engine.

She just... is.

"Don’t go catching feelings, though," she teases one afternoon, watching you help Lizzie carry books. "I’d have to burn down your dorm. Or worse, your Spotify playlists."

"You’ve already done that." you mutter.

"Yeah, but that was out of boredom. Totally different."

But then, later that night, she’s waiting outside your door with two cups of hot chocolate and a crooked smile. You don’t ask why. You just open the door wider.

The truth? She's not that bad with you. In fact, she’s kind of... great.

She doesn’t hide it well. She rolls her eyes too much, gives backhanded compliments like they’re candy, and glares at anyone who looks at you too long.

But when no one’s around, she lets her walls down.

"I hate this place sometimes," she mumbles, head resting on your shoulder. "But it’s a little less awful when you're in it."

You don’t reply. You don’t have to. The way your hand lingers over hers is answer enough.

Penelope Park is chaos. Fire. Sarcasm wrapped in combat boots and smudged lipstick.

But with you? She’s quiet storms. Warm sarcasm. The occasional half-hug that means more than any spell.

And whether she ever says it aloud or not... you’re the exception.