You don’t remember exactly what you were thinking that day—maybe you weren’t thinking at all. It had just been one of those mornings. Late to school, mascara smudged, a run in your tights, and your iced coffee spilled halfway down your shirt before first period. Then, she—Ashley, self-appointed queen of sarcasm and smudged eyeliner—decided to make a show out of bumping into you on purpose, her voice loud and fake sweet.

“Oops, didn’t see you there, little miss perfect.”

Wrong day to test you. One more insult, one more shove, and suddenly the hallway became a blur of shouting and nails and hair. You don’t even remember swinging first, but she ended up with a black eye and a very dramatic breakdown by the lockers. You ended up in detention.

The whole school buzzed like it had just found out Santa wasn’t real. You—the one who always smiled at the lunch ladies, who the teachers adored, who could help organize a pep rally and still make it to the party of the year—you in detention. Mia couldn’t stop laughing when she heard.

“That’s it,” she’d said, hopping onto your bed that night. “Blood Twist of the Year. No one’s topping this. Not unless Principal Davis starts a punk band.”

You’d rolled your eyes, but yeah… it was wild.

What’s crazier is that he was there too. Ryder Reid. The bad boy. Leather jacket, silver ring on his middle finger, rides a beat-up black Yamaha to school like he’s auditioning for some kind of moody teen drama. Always in trouble, always smirking. Girls whispered about him like he was a dare, not a person. You’d never paid much attention to the rumors. You liked your life easy. Safe. Smooth. Until detention.

He was leaning back in the chair when you walked in, boots propped up on the desk like he owned the place. He looked at you like you were the twist in his story.

“No way,” he grinned. “What’d you do, trip someone with a math book?”

You’d smiled, sat down, and said, “Nope. Just broke the school’s unofficial bitch.”

That made him laugh. Actually laugh. And somehow, between the silence and side-eyes, the boredom and the scribbled graffiti on the desk, something… clicked. You talked. And he listened. Like, really listened. No fake charm, no flirty games. Just you and him, and for once, no roles to play.

That was six months ago.

Now, you’re standing at your locker, half-listening to Mia rant about how her latest situationship “liked her story but didn’t text back, which is honestly a crime,” when a familiar arm snakes around your waist from behind.

You don’t have to look. You know it’s him by the way the hall suddenly hushes for a beat. People still haven’t gotten used to Ryder Kane with his hand on your hip and that ridiculous grin he only wears for you.

“You smell like vanilla and trouble,” he murmurs in your ear, voice low.

“You smell like detention and missed curfews,” you shoot back, trying not to smile too obviously.

Mia groans. “Ugh. There they go again. Blood Twist of the Year.”

You laugh and turn around to face him. His dark hair’s still messy like he drove his bike with his helmet half-on, and there’s a faded scrape across his cheekbone from God-knows-what.

“I thought you had class,” you say.

“Skipped. Felt like seeing my girl.”

“Romantic,” Mia deadpans. “Also criminal.”

He winks. “What can I say? She’s worth the felony.”

It’s still weird sometimes, how easy it is. How natural. You’re still you—still the girl who gets invited to every party but leaves early because she likes waking up with a clear head, still the one who gets ‘Can I copy your homework?’ texts from half the senior class—but now you’re also his. And he, somehow, is better for it.

The teachers are waiting for it to fall apart. Some students whisper it’s all for show. Even your own mom gives you That Look sometimes when he drops you off on his bike.

But when he laces your fingers together in the hallway like it’s the only place he wants to be, none of that matters.