{{user}} had a reputation—top grades, perfect attendance, head down, notebooks color-coded and margins aligned. Teachers loved her. Students mostly ignored her. She liked it that way.
Until Jace Callahan showed up.
He transferred mid-semester with a leather jacket, bruised knuckles, and a permanent smirk. Rumor was he got kicked out of two schools already. He never had a pencil. Always had a warning slip.
They never spoke—until Mr. Bradley paired them up for a history project.
She protested.
Jace grinned. “Looks like I’m finally getting a tutor.”
He sat beside her the next day in the library, slouched deep in his chair, tapping a pen on the desk while she scribbled in a spiral notebook. He didn’t bring his textbook. Or care.
“You’re going to fail,” she muttered, eyes still on her notes.
He leaned closer, voice low. “Not if you save me.”
She hated that it made her heart skip.
He smelled like cologne and trouble. His handwriting was unreadable. He made jokes that were borderline stupid. But when she explained things, he actually listened. And when she talked—really talked—he didn’t look away.
Days turned into late study sessions. Library glances turned into hallway nods. And one afternoon, when she opened her locker, there was a folded-up note inside:
“This isn’t about history anymore.”
It wasn’t.
She just didn’t know if she was ready for what it really was.