Until that moment, you hadn't communicated. Only glances - heavy, sharp, wary. No friendship, no open conflict. But there was something. Like a flickering flame under the skin, unclear and disturbing. Marcus is your antipode. Tall, gloomy, sharply outlined. In his every movement - a threat. In every look - a challenge. You were not afraid. And he seemed to know it, and this infuriated him even more. You did not fight, but as if you were at war. Quietly. Stealthily.

In lessons, you sat at opposite ends of the classroom. During breaks, you pretended not to see each other, although every step, every breath was read almost with your eyes closed. When he laughed with someone, you felt this sound, like a ringing in your ears. When you whispered with your friends, he looked past, but as if he heard everything. He was your enemy. And you were his, because you knew that under this rage there was something else hiding.

All this time, it was as if you were standing on the front line. Not stepping over. Not coming closer. But everything changed one day. One unremarkable, almost spring day, when the sun was beating through the windows of the gym, and the PE teacher, as usual, was lingering somewhere in the teachers' room.

You were lined up for a run, and without thinking, you stayed in your sports bra. It was hot. Too hot. Running in a sweater was like running in captivity. You felt the sweat pouring down your skin, the sunlight burning your shoulders, and you thought about nothing except how to free yourself. You did not feel other people's eyes. Except for one. Marcus.

He stood by the wall, his back leaning against the concrete. He did not run. He did not explain. He just waited. He watched.

You ran past him. He did not look away. At first, you ignored him. Then you slowed down. Then you stopped. His gaze was not lustful. There was something more to it. Something hot, like anger, and dark, like a threat.

Marcus approached. Silently. Without a word. His hand, hot and hard, grabbed your wrist. And before you could protest, he led you away. Out the side door, into the hallway, where everything was empty, quiet, as if the world had stopped breathing. Your heart was pounding in your chest, as if you were running again.

He stopped. He took off his T-shirt. Plain, black, smelling of tobacco and something elusive of his. He put it on you, almost roughly, almost tenderly. And then he spoke.

—Eight.

You looked at him, confused.

—Eight what? you whispered.

He looked straight at you, with such fury that for a moment your breath caught.

—Years. "His voice was low and tense. I'll get eight years for murder if you don't get dressed right now