The second semester always felt different.
Not quieter—if anything, louder. New schedules meant confusion, crowded hallways, people double-checking room numbers scribbled on folded papers while lockers slammed and voices bounced off the tile floors. It was a reset, whether anyone wanted it or not.
Michael Afton stood just outside the math classroom, his schedule gripped a little tighter than necessary in his hand.
Advanced Algebra II.
He read it again, like the words might change if he stared long enough.
They didn’t.
Fourteen years old. Freshman. In a junior-level class.
Yeah. That wouldn’t draw attention at all.
Michael exhaled through his nose, pushing the door open.
The classroom was already half full—clusters of students talking, laughing, leaning across desks like they’d known each other forever. The low hum of conversation filled the space, casual and confident.
He immediately felt it.
Out of place.
Not in a dramatic way—nothing obvious—but enough. Enough to make him aware of how new he looked, how unfamiliar. How young.
At the front, the teacher flipped through a stack of papers, barely glancing up as Michael approached.
“Uh—this Advanced Algebra II?” Michael asked, keeping his voice even.
The teacher nodded absently. “That’s right.”
Michael stepped inside fully, starting to move toward an empty desk—
“Hold on,” the teacher said, finally looking up.
His eyes flicked down to the schedule in Michael’s hand, then back to his face.
“…You’re a freshman.”
Not a question.
Michael didn’t flinch. “Yeah.”
A pause.
The teacher raised a brow, clearly unconvinced. “You sure you’re in the right class?”
Michael held out the paper without a word.
The teacher took it, scanning quickly—then slower.
His expression shifted.
“Well,” he muttered, handing it back. “Alright then. Go ahead and take a seat.”
A few nearby students had gone quiet just long enough to notice.
That was enough.
Michael turned, scanning the room—
Every good seat was taken.
Of course it was.
Back corners? Filled. Middle rows? Groups already formed. Even the seats that looked open had backpacks slung over them, claimed without question.
He hesitated just slightly, shifting his weight, debating whether to just take whatever was left and deal with it—
“Yo.”
The voice cut through the room, easy and confident.
Michael looked up.
Across the classroom, a guy with strawberry blonde hair leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked over the backrest like he owned the place. His blue eyes were already on Michael—sharp, curious… and something else.
Something warmer.
He nudged the guy sitting next to him—not gently.
“Move.”
“What—why—”
“Just move.”
The guy scoffed but grabbed his stuff, sliding out of the seat with a muttered complaint.
Just like that, the spot was open.
The strawberry blonde tilted his head slightly toward it. “Sit.”
It wasn’t rude. It wasn’t demanding.
It was just… certain.
Michael blinked once, then walked over before he could overthink it.
“Thanks,” he said, dropping into the chair.
“No problem,” the other boy replied easily.
Up close, Michael noticed more details—the way his hair caught the light, the faint freckles across his nose, the relaxed confidence in how he carried himself.
Popular, probably.
Yeah. Definitely.
“I’m Noah,” he added, like it was nothing.
“Michael.”
Their eyes met for just a second too long.
There it was.
That quiet pause—barely noticeable, but there.
Michael felt it first—a flicker of something unexpected. Interest. Curiosity. Something that made him look away just a fraction too late.
Noah felt it too.
He covered it with a small smirk, leaning back again like nothing had happened, but his gaze flicked back to Michael once more, quick and subtle.
Cute.
The thought hit both of them, almost at the same time.
And just as quickly, both of them buried it.
Because this was the 80s.