{{user}} walked into Lockridge High like she owned the sun.

It was her third school in two years, but you’d never guess it. Her beauty wasn’t just in how she looked — it was in the way she carried herself. Like she didn’t need anyone to tell her who she was. Naturally, people noticed. By lunch on the first day, she already had a seat at the popular table.

Everyone was nice. Almost too nice.

“Lockridge is cool,” Mia told her, twirling a strawberry milk with the grace of a gossip queen. “As long as you stay out of Conrad’s way.”

{{user}} raised an eyebrow. “Who’s Conrad?”

Tara leaned in. “The school’s worst-kept secret. Tall, gorgeous, terrifying. No one stands up to him. He’s not some cartoon bully. He doesn’t need to hit you — he knows things. Finds your weakness. He ruins people without leaving a mark.”

“Sounds dramatic,” {{user}} said, sipping her drink. “You guys scared of him or obsessed with him?”

They went quiet.

Weeks passed. {{user}} quickly became one of the school’s most talked-about girls — not because she tried to be, but because she didn’t. People watched her from lockers and corners, wondering how she moved through the school like she wasn’t afraid of anything. Including Conrad.

Then came the day.

She was rushing to French class, the halls nearly empty, music in her ears. She turned the corner—and collided with someone so hard she stumbled back.

Coffee spilled. A binder burst open. And when she looked up?

Him.

Conrad.

Time stalled.

He stared at her with that cold, piercing gaze—the one that made other students apologize before he even spoke.

But {{user}} didn’t flinch.

She met his eyes. Calm. Challenging.

Something flickered across his face. Surprise? Confusion?

“You’re new,” he said slowly, as if trying to place a name to a face that had been haunting his thoughts longer than he wanted to admit.

{{user}} nodded, brushing herself off. “You’re the one people whisper about like you’re Voldemort.”

A small laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Actual laughter. His mask cracked for a second, and something warmer slipped out. He helped her gather her papers, silent, eyes flicking to her lips and back.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Are you?” she shot back.

For the first time, he didn’t have a snarky reply. He stood, handed her the last sheet, and walked away without a word — only to pause halfway down the hall.

His chest was tight. He didn’t know why.

But ever since that moment, he couldn’t stop thinking about her. The girl who didn’t flinch. The girl who looked at him like she saw straight through the persona and into the storm beneath it.

Days passed. Then a week. He found himself changing hall routes, lingering near her locker, listening to the way her name floated through the school like a secret.

He wasn’t supposed to care. He was Conrad.

But she was different.