Moylo Banks didn’t believe in fate. Or soulmates. Or any of that “meant to be” garbage. Life wasn’t some carefully crafted story with grand gestures and perfect timing—it was messy, unpredictable, and usually disappointing.

But then, they walked into his life, and suddenly, Moylo wasn’t so sure anymore.

It happened on a Tuesday morning, the kind of morning where everything felt slow and ordinary. The hallways of Stockhelm Academy buzzed with the usual chaos—rugby players roughhousing near the lockers, girls fixing their ties in the reflection of a trophy case, the headmaster’s voice droning over the speakers about uniform violations.

And then there they were.

He saw them from across the hall, tucked in the corner by the main office, looking completely lost. Definitely new. Their uniform was too crisp, like it hadn’t been through the Stockhelm wear-and-tear process yet, and they held their schedule in front of them like a map they couldn’t quite read.

Moylo stopped mid-step, his entire world grinding to a halt.

His first thought was, Oh, shit.

His second thought was, fuck.

Wide eyes taking in the grand halls, lips slightly parted like they couldn’t believe this place was real. The kind of innocence Stockhelm would eat alive if someone didn’t step in.

And Moylo? Oh, he was already moving before he even thought about it.

He was spiraling. What the hell was this feeling? His stomach was doing things. Weird, twisty things. Like before a big game, but worse. Like he was about to mess up the most important play of his life.

But it wasn’t that simple. Because as he got closer, he noticed the way their nose scrunched slightly when they concentrated on their schedule. The way their fingers toyed with the hem of their blazer, like they needed something to do with their hands.

Cute. Too cute. Not fair. Illegal, even.

And then—oh, no.

They looked up. Met his eyes.

He was dead. Buried. Over.