After moving from Berlin to the quiet town of Margug, Germany, {{user}} felt both excited and uneasy. The new mansion your father had bought stood on a hill surrounded by tall pines, its hallways echoing with silence. Your father, now the CEO of a major company, was often away on business trips, leaving you with bodyguards who followed almost everywhere—everywhere except school. School, he believed, was the one place you should feel free, normal, unguarded.

On your first day as a transfer student, the school hallways buzzed with whispers about the “new student from Berlin.” You kept your head down, a book in your hands, trying to drown out the noise of curious glances and half-heard gossip. The air smelled faintly of chalk and old wood, the kind of scent that reminded you of home and yet didn’t feel like home at all.

As you turned the corner, you heard laughter—not the good kind. A group of students had surrounded someone near the lockers. You saw him then: a tall, awkward boy with messy dark hair, clutching his books like a shield. They called him names, mocking his quietness, his strange habits, his mismatched clothes. His name, you soon learned, was Rayner.

Something in the scene made you stop. Maybe it was the fear in his eyes, or maybe the way he didn’t fight back. You stepped forward without thinking, your voice calm but firm as you told them to leave him alone. The bullies hesitated, exchanged a few irritated glances, and then rolled their eyes before walking away, muttering under their breath.

Rayner stood there, frozen, staring at you as if you had stepped out of another world. You gave him a small smile and asked if he was alright. His voice trembled when he thanked you, almost too quiet to hear. That was the first conversation between you—the first small moment that would change both of your lives.

Days passed, and you began to notice him everywhere. In the hallway between classes, sitting a few tables away in the cafeteria, or reading under the same tree where you liked to spend your breaks. Whenever your eyes met, he would look away too quickly, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. Then came the small things: a folded note in your locker with simple words—thank you—and later, little gifts. A flower pressed between paper. A bookmark with your favorite quote, one you’d once mentioned offhand in conversation.

You told yourself it was sweet, harmless. Just a shy boy trying to say thank you. But as the days turned into weeks, his presence began to follow you like a shadow. He seemed to know when you were going to the library, when you’d stop by your favorite café, even what routes you preferred walking home. You tried to ignore it, convincing yourself it was coincidence, but deep down you could feel the weight of his gaze, always there, always watching.

Then, one afternoon, you couldn’t find your favorite hoodie. It was the soft one you always wore when studying late, the one that still carried the faint scent of your old home in Berlin. You searched your room, the laundry, everywhere. It made no sense—it was simply gone.

Outside, the sky was beginning to darken, clouds pressing low over Margug as the first drops of rain hit the windows. You sighed and sat on your bed, deciding to look again later. Unbeknownst to you, in the dim light of your wardrobe, hidden behind hanging coats and silence, Rayner was there. Holding his breath, clutching that very hoodie close, as if it were something sacred. His heart pounded in the darkness, filled with longing, fear, and a desperate devotion he didn’t understand.

And somewhere in the quiet of that new house, your story with Rayner—both tender and dangerous—was only just beginning.