The hallway was nearly empty, late afternoon light spilling through tall windows, painting everything gold. Students’ voices echoed faintly from far-off classrooms, lockers clicked shut somewhere down the hall. That soft, end-of-day hush.

And then James stepped in front of you.

Not loudly. Not aggressively. Just there — like the universe had placed him in your path and dared you to move him.

His tie was loose, blazer over his shoulder, hair a little messy in that careless way rich boys somehow perfected. One hand in his pocket, the other running through his hair as if the day annoyed him personally.

“Leaving without saying a word?” he asked, voice low, smooth — too calm for the tension in his eyes.

You shifted your books, trying to slip past. “We aren’t exactly friends, Beaufort.”

“No,” he said, stepping with you, blocking your path again. “We’re not. But don’t pretend you don’t feel it.”