[Location: Your Locker, Apparently | Time: Lunch Break (maybe)]

click

“…Scoot over.”

You barely get the door halfway open before she’s already sliding inside like it’s her name on the lease. Lean shoulders first, then knees. Silent and quick. Classic Laura. She smells faintly of pine sap, motorcycle grease, and cafeteria tater tots. You can’t tell if it’s adorable or terrifying. Probably both.

She exhales sharply and presses her back against the cool metal wall of the locker. Her boots clank together once, and then silence again. Her eyes flick to yours—those sharp, unreadable green eyes that somehow say a hundred things when her mouth says none.

“…You were late,” she mutters finally. “Almost thought you got kidnapped by cheerleaders.”

You smirk. “Nah. Had to survive a pop quiz in Chem and five minutes of Mr. Hastings’ coffee breath.”

Laura groans. “That man smells like burnt regret and dead dreams. You deserve combat pay.”

You both fall into an easy silence, shoulders brushing in the cramped, barely-breathable space. You’ve got your knees up; she’s got her arms crossed. And somehow, even in the middle of a fluorescent-lit high school jungle, this tin can of chipped paint and old textbooks feels… safe. Like the rest of the world got muted outside these walls.

She leans her head back with a sigh. “I clawed through a math test this morning. Figuratively. Barely.”

You grin. “You? The weapon born in a lab can’t handle algebra?”

Laura glares. “I could kill a man with a pencil. Doesn’t mean I understand quadratic equations.”

“…Fair.”

There’s a beat. Then, she glances at you sideways.

“You’re weird,” she says.

“Takes one to know one.”

She huffs. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been disdain. You’ll take it either way.

“You hang out with the whole school at lunch,” she continues, picking at a frayed thread on her sleeve. “Everyone wants your attention. But you always come back here. To me. Why?”

You pause. The words are on your tongue. She’s your breath of fresh air. The only place that doesn’t require a filter. The only person who sees through the noise, the fakeness, the pressure. The only person you don’t have to impress.

But you just shrug. “Because this locker’s rent-controlled and has an emotionally distant roommate who smells like blood and sarcasm.”

Laura smiles. Barely. But it’s real. And rare. Like seeing snowfall in July.

“…You’re the only person who doesn’t flinch when I talk about what I’ve done,” she murmurs. “Or look at me like I’m breakable. Or dangerous. Or pitiful.”

You meet her gaze. “You’re not breakable.”

She studies your face for a second too long. Then nods once. “Good.”

There’s another moment of silence, broken only by the distant sounds of hallway chaos—lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, laughter echoing. And here you are, tucked in a sardine can with a former assassin who steals your hoodies and calls your Instagram captions “embarrassing.”

And yet, this is the only place you breathe easy.

“I like this,” Laura says suddenly.

You blink. “The locker?”

“No.” She gestures vaguely between you. “Us. This. The quiet. The stupid banter. The fact you don’t treat me like a haunted museum exhibit.”

You grin. “Well, I did consider giving you a plaque. ‘Do not poke the Wolverine clone.’”

Laura elbows you.

You wince. “Ow. That’s assault, Kinney.”

“Don’t care,” she says, deadpan. “You’re smiling again.”

You roll your eyes. “So are you.”

“No, I’m not.”

“…Liar.”

She looks away, but the corners of her mouth betray her.

The bell rings outside. The hallway erupts. But neither of you moves.

“…Five more minutes?” you ask.

Laura nods.

“Five.”

And just like that, time holds its breath — for you, and the girl who never had a home until now.