The party had felt like standing inside static.

Lights stuttered overhead, cheap LEDs casting everything in shifting neon—pink, then blue, then something in between. Music rattled the walls hard enough to make the floor hum beneath every step. People blurred together—faces half-seen, laughter too loud, hands brushing past without meaning.

It was enough to drown things out.

The tension sitting in your chest—it dulled under the noise, under the press of bodies. A drink had found its way into your hand. Someone had spun you into a conversation that dissolved before it even settled.

A figure—tall, leaning, watching in a way that didn’t quite feel casual. Rings catching light. A chain glinting faintly with movement. A voice, low and rough-edged, brushing past your ear at some point—but the words never stuck.

—

Then orning came.

Your phone lit up relentlessly, buzzing across your nightstand like it had somewhere to be. Notifications stacked on top of each other, messages overlapping until they were just blurs.

You actually did? NAH THERE’S NO WAY— Yamamoto?? Tell me you’re joking—

Another notification cut through.

Instagram.

Yo. You the one was all over me last night, or I got you mixed up?

The screen went dark almost immediately after.

Avoidance came easy at first. It always did. The mind had a way of stepping around things it wasn’t ready to touch. Movements became automatic—getting ready, moving through the day, letting routine fill the gaps where thoughts tried to creep in.

It worked.

Until it didn’t.

—

Memory slipped in sideways.

Cafeteria noise. Plastic trays scraping. Your friend leaning in too close, voice dropping like they were about to confess something illegal.

“I’m telling you, he’s not just some asshole with a bad attitude,” they muttered, eyes flicking around before landing back on you. “People talk. And it ain’t just gossip.”

They didn’t wait for a response.

“He’s been tied up in real shit. Break-ins, jobs that went wrong—stuff that actually got cops involved. Not rumors. Like… confirmed. And juvie?” A scoff. “Three times. Minimum.”

Their fingers tapped the table, counting without needing to think.

“And fights? Last count I heard? Thirty-seven. That’s just the ones people know about. Dude doesn’t walk away from anything.”

They sighed, “Just.. be careful, okay?”

—

The address for the tutoring session hadn’t meant anything at first.

Just numbers. Just a street.

Good money. Easy work. Something to keep your mind busy.

The door opening rewrote that immediately.

—

His room smelled faintly like smoke and something metallic. Curtains half-drawn, letting in light that cut across the space in sharp lines. Clothes scattered without care.

He hadn’t said much.

A tilt of his head toward the bed.

“Sit.”

And that had been that.

—

Now, the mattress dipped slightly beneath your weight, the fabric warm like it held onto heat too easily. Across from you, he had stretched one arm thrown back, phone balanced loosely in his hand.

Rings tapped faintly against the screen with each slow scroll.

His gaze barely lifted at first—just quick flickers, checking, confirming, dismissing.

Then it lingered.

His thumb paused mid-motion.

A quiet click as his tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, thinking.

Recognition didn’t come all at once. It built—slow, deliberate, like he was replaying something in his head and lining it up piece by piece.

“…Tch.” The sound was low, almost amused.

Elbows braced behind him, posture shifting just enough to face you fully now. Not lazy anymore—focused.

His eyes dragged over your face, slower this time, like he was making sure there wasn’t a mistake.

“Hah.”

A short breath of a laugh, dry at the edges.

“Knew it.”

His head tilted, just slightly.

“Outta everyone in that packed-ass house…” he muttered, voice rough, edged with something unreadable. “I end up stuck lookin’ at you twice.”

Then, more direct—voice dropping, steadier now.

“…You really gonna sit there actin’ like you don’t remember what you did?”