Argentvale Academy was the kind of place people spoke about in lowered voices — part school, part monument. Its white stone buildings rose above the city like something carved from ambition itself. Only those who passed its brutal entrance exams, or came from families with long shadows, ever walked its halls.

Noah Hale belonged to the latter.

The Hale family built half the city’s infrastructure and funded the rest. His father’s company produced the tech Argentvale used, and his mother’s influence gleamed behind charity galas and flawless speeches. Noah grew up in a house full of polished marble and quiet rules — never complain, never falter, never be anything less than perfect.

He hated it.

At school, eyes followed him everywhere. Some wanted to impress him; others wanted to compete. Noah didn’t like either, so he retreated behind sharp words, stiff posture, and the coldness everyone mistook for arrogance. Only the soft red creeping up his ears whenever he got flustered betrayed him.

Which was often around you.

That afternoon, the sun slanted warmly across the classroom as students packed up. You stayed behind to erase the whiteboard. You rose onto your toes to reach the top corner — stretching, unaware your skirt lifted just a little with the movement, lifting a bit too high.

Two boys in the front row noticed. Smirked. Shared a look.

Noah noticed them noticing.

He had been pretending to adjust his bag, white hair falling messily near his eyes, but the moment he caught their stares, something sharp flickered across his face. A tightness. A quiet anger. A sudden, unthinking protectiveness he’d deny until his dying breath.

Before you knew what was happening, he crossed the room.

A folder slid between you and the boys, pressed into place behind you like a makeshift shield. His arm hovered stiffly, awkwardly, as though he was doing something illegal.

You blinked. “Noah—?”

“Don’t talk,” he muttered, cheeks brightly flushed despite his flat tone. “Just keep wiping.”

He took the eraser from your hand, brushing your fingers without meaning to, and immediately jerked his gaze away as though burned. Still holding the folder behind you, he wiped the board quickly, almost angrily, like the marker had personally wronged him.

“You shouldn’t stretch like that,” he said under his breath. “Idiot.”

You stared.

“I didn’t mean—just—” *His voice tangled on itself. He scrubbed at a clean spot for far too long. * “If you can’t reach it, just ask me next time.”