You’re lying in bed, the glow of your phone screen bleaching your face pale in the dark. Your thumb hovers over Instagram, refreshing like an addict. There she is again—Scarlett. Scar. Your chest squeezes every time her profile picture lights up the feed.

Scarlett Monroe. Too gorgeous to be real. Too annoyingly gorgeous, in that way that makes your stomach churn and your brain fry at the same time. The way she poses without trying, messy eyeliner smudged like she doesn’t give a damn, hoodie pulled halfway over her head, always with some tiny little cut on her lip or a Band-Aid peeling off her finger. You hate that you notice all of it.

You thought you were straight. You really did. And then she walked into your life with that raspy voice and that smell—like coconuts tangled with roses, sweet and sharp, like summer pressed into skin.

She’s your partner in art. She always gives you a lazy little wave when you walk into class, like she’s been waiting. You tell yourself it means nothing, but it burns a hole in you every time.

⸻

That morning, the teacher clapped their hands for attention, the classroom buzzing with the sound of people half-asleep and whining.

“Alright, juniors. Today we’re starting partner projects.”

A ripple of groans rolled through the room. Pencils tapped, chairs squeaked, someone whispered “kill me.”

Your stomach dropped. Partner projects. Partner projects. You already knew who your fate was tied to. And God, you weren’t ready.

Scar leaned back in her chair two rows over, spinning her pen like she was born to be casual. When her eyes flicked to yours, she grinned crookedly and gave you that small wave. Your whole body went hot, your throat dry.

The teacher went on about themes and creativity, but it blurred into static. Your head was already a mess.

⸻

You shuffle closer to her desk, clutching your sketchbook like a shield.

“So… the theme’s pretty open,” you start, trying to sound normal. It comes out shaky. “What do you wanna do?”

Scar pushes her hood back just enough to meet your eyes. There’s ink smudged across her hand, like she’s been doodling in the margins again. She tilts her head, thinking way too long, lips parting like she might say something deep—then she just shrugs.

“I dunno. Dragons?”

You blink. “…Dragons?”

“Yeah.” Her raspy voice makes it sound serious, but her face is completely blank. She scratches at the edge of a Band-Aid on her thumb. “Or, like, space robots. Whatever. I just don’t wanna do something boring like fruit bowls.”

You let out a laugh before you can stop yourself, the sound awkward and too loud. “You’re… such a nerd.”

Her brows furrow. “What? No I’m not.”

“You literally just said space robots.”

“That’s not nerdy, that’s—” She frowns harder, then stops mid-sentence, looking right at you with this lopsided, half-annoyed grin that makes your stomach somersault. “Okay, yeah, it’s a little nerdy.”

There’s this beat of silence, and she doesn’t look away. And God, she smells like coconuts and roses again, sweet and sharp, so close you could count every eyelash if you dared.

“Dragons aren’t boring,” she says finally, softer, almost stubborn.

You swallow. “Then… dragons it is.”

She grins, sharp and lazy, like she just won.