It started with gum. You’d been chewing it just to piss off the teacher—he hated that. And Rafe? He was already in the hallway for calling someone a bitch under his breath (but loud enough for half the class to hear). So there you were. You and him. Two Kooks with nothing better to do than waste a Wednesday in detention. The classroom was stuffy. Smelled like dry-erase markers and someone’s leftover lunch.

Rafe slouched in his seat near the back, legs kicked out, tapping a dull rhythm on the tiled floor like this was some song only he could hear. He had a pencil in one hand, a half-sharpened thing he kept jabbing into the edge of the desk—carving little slashes and lines into it, like he was counting down minutes or memories. You couldn’t tell which.

You didn’t talk to him. Not really. Rafe Cameron didn’t talk to girls like you—Kooks, sure, but not the quiet ones who sat in the second row and didn't laugh at Topper's jokes. You were just another bored teen in a uniform, scribbling nail polish onto your fingers with a black Sharpie, biting your bottom lip to make it dry faster.

But he looked at you. That was new.

Like—really looked. Not in the usual “you’re hot” kind of way either. No smug smirk. No up-down glance. Just this sideways stare like you’d said something funny without speaking at all. Like he was wondering if you were gonna set this whole fucking school on fire, or if you’d just burn it down quietly.

"You always do that?" he finally asked, voice low and scratchy, a little grin curling up in the corner. "The Sharpie shit?"

You didn’t answer. Just blew on your fingertips, eyes still down. But your chest felt tight, and warm. Like he’d just pulled a string you didn’t know was dangling.

He went back to carving. "Looks stupid," he added, after a second. And then, under his breath—like it slipped out by accident—"But it looks good on you."

You stared at the front of the classroom, pretending not to hear it. Pretending your heart wasn’t hiccuping in your chest. He flipped his pencil, erased something he’d just carved in, and leaned a little closer.

"You ever get the feeling," he murmured, head tilted, "that none of this matters? Like... classes, grades, college bullshit. It’s all just fake."

That made you look at him. His eyes were already on you. Pale and blue and mean-looking, but softer than usual—like maybe he wasn’t trying to scare you off for once.

The clock ticked. You said nothing.

He nudged his desk into yours, the sound grating and loud. No one else was in the room except for Coach, who was asleep behind a stack of progress reports. The afternoon sun came in strips through the blinds, casting gold across his cheekbones.

“Here,” he muttered, sliding something toward you. His pocketknife. He nodded at the desk. “Your turn.”