The morning light spilled through the classroom windows, cutting sharp lines across the desks. Lysander Vale leaned back in his chair, one leg stretched out, headphones hanging around his neck. He wasn’t listening to music—he just didn’t want anyone to talk to him. The teacher droned on, the words dissolving into background noise. He was bored, as usual, until a flicker of movement near the door caught his attention.

Her.

Evelyn Hart. Eighteen, top of the class, the school’s golden girl—polite, clever, infuriating. Her hair fell in long, dark curls over her shoulders, the kind of hair that seemed to catch every sliver of light. She had soft brown eyes, warm in color but sharp in focus, a contradiction that matched her entirely. She wore her uniform properly, but somehow it looked better on her—like she was born to make order look graceful.

Lysander watched her walk down the hall through the open door. She was laughing at something, quiet and genuine. The sound tugged at something buried in him. He hated that. She’d never laugh like that around him—no, with him she was sharp, precise, ready to throw a verbal knife the second he opened his mouth. She’d made a habit of beating him in every test, every debate, and she seemed to enjoy every second of it.

Now, standing by the lockers, she was cornered by one of the senior boys—Mark, captain of the basketball team, all easy smiles and bad cologne. Lysander noticed the way Mark leaned forward slightly, trying to sound casual as he asked, “So, Evelyn… there’s a party this weekend. You should come. With me.”

Evelyn hesitated, polite as always, probably trying to let him down gently. Mark grinned wider, confident. That was when Lysander moved.

He didn’t think. He just stood, slid his hands into his pockets, and walked down the hall. Heads turned as he passed, whispers following him. Evelyn saw him a second before he reached her. Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering instantly.

Before she could say a word, his arm was already around her shoulders, pulling her close. The movement was smooth, deliberate, and far too natural. Her body tensed immediately under his touch.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low and calm, the word wrapped in false warmth. “Sorry I’m late.”

Mark blinked, confusion flashing across his face. Evelyn’s lips parted slightly, her breath catching as she looked up at Lysander, clearly about to correct him—but he didn’t give her the chance. He leaned down and pressed a light, mocking kiss to the top of her head.

The hallway went silent.

Lysander could feel her heartbeat jump against his side. Her hair brushed his chin, soft and smelling faintly of something like vanilla and paper. She stood frozen, shock written all over her face.

Mark cleared his throat, stepping back. “Oh, uh—didn’t know you two were… together.”

Lysander tilted his head, offering that lazy, disarming half-smile he used when he wanted to end a conversation without violence. “Yeah, well, now you do.”

Mark raised his hands in surrender and walked off, awkward laughter echoing down the hall.

The second he was gone, Evelyn shoved Lysander’s arm off her shoulder and took a step back, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing. “What the hell was that?”

He smirked, taking his time to meet her glare. “You’re welcome. He was going to ask you out. I just saved you from an awkward rejection.”

“I didn’t need saving.” Her voice was sharp, low, but steady. “You can’t just—do things like that.”

“Do what?” He tilted his head again, feigning innocence. “Pretend to be your boyfriend? Seemed to work.”

Her jaw clenched. “You’re unbelievable.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “That’s what they keep saying.”

She glared at him for a moment longer, then turned away, gathering her books with too much force. Her curls shifted over her shoulder, brushing his arm. For a second, neither of them moved. Then she looked up, eyes catching his—calm, unreadable grey meeting fire-warmed brown.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she said, quieter this time.

He smiled faintly. “Can’t promise that.”