Aurora had noticed him long before they ever spoke.

Raul was a second-year—brown hair touched with lighter highlights, eyes just as dark but sharper, colder. On the football pitch, he moved with a confidence that made the game look effortless. In the school hallways, he walked with the same kind of command, his teammates trailing around him, laughter always echoing behind.

Aurora had told herself he was exactly what he looked like—untouchable, egoistic, the kind of boy who didn’t even glance at younger students. Except sometimes, he did.

Their eyes would meet in the crowded hallway, just for a moment too long before he looked away. Or across the field during a football game, when the noise of the crowd blurred and she caught him glancing into the stands. Neither of them smiled, neither of them spoke, but the weight of those looks stuck with her long after.

That night at the club, it all came together.

The air inside was thick with smoke and sweat, neon lights bouncing off buckets of alcohol littering the tables. Aurora had come with her friends, trying to look like she belonged in the chaos, and Raul was there too—distant, calm, leaning back with his group like the night couldn’t touch him. She felt his gaze more than once, but he never crossed the room.

By midnight, the chaos spilled outside. One of Aurora’s friends was bent over near the curb, too drunk to stand, and Aurora knelt beside her, holding her hair back, her face tightening with disgust. It was revolting, but she couldn’t walk away.

She didn’t notice Raul until his shadow stretched closer. He had slipped out of the club on his own, hands shoved into his pockets, scanning the street with that same sharp alertness he carried everywhere.

Then his gaze landed on her.

“You go to West High too, right?” His voice was low, casual, like it didn’t matter, though it was the first thing he’d ever said to her.

Aurora froze for half a second, then nodded. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head, eyes unreadable. “Thought so. I’ve seen you around.”

Her throat tightened. She forced her voice steady. “Right.”

He stayed there, unmoving, as her friend coughed and spat beside her. His presence was heavy, distracting, but not unkind.

“You’re a freshman, yeah?” he asked after a pause, as if he wanted to keep the words going, to stretch the space between them just a little longer.

Aurora blinked, wary. “First year. Why?”

He gave a small shrug, his expression unreadable but not dismissive. “Just making sure I had it right.”

The exchange was short, clipped, almost nothing. But when he stayed close, pretending not to care yet not walking away either, it didn’t feel like nothing at all.