People whispered his name like it was a warning.

Malichi.

Tall, built like he could bench-press the whole school, skin the deep color of dark chocolate, and long dreads he usually kept tied back. His eyes were sharp—too sharp—and he walked like someone who’d grown up knowing danger firsthand. Everyone stayed out of his way. Teachers too. And the only people he ever talked to were the “bad kids,” the group that cut class, got into fights, and laughed at things that would scare anyone else.

But you? You were the opposite.

Cute. Sweet. Always smiling. Smart enough that teachers bragged about you like you were the school’s treasure. You carried notebooks, colored pens, and snacks in your bag. Nobody would ever put you anywhere near him.

You weren’t supposed to exist in the same story.

It happened on a Wednesday morning.

You were walking through the hallway, arms full of books, not watching where you were going. Malichi turned the corner at the same time—fast, irritated, jaw tight like he’d just been arguing with someone.

You smacked right into him.

Your books exploded everywhere.

You froze, heart jumping, because you had just crashed into the Malichi Hayes. The one people swore had put a senior in the hospital last year. The one nobody dared to look in the eyes.

Malichi stared down at you, annoyed at first… Then his expression changed.

Because you weren’t trembling or running away. You just blinked up at him with those soft, confused eyes and whispered, “I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Nobody apologized to him like that.

He crouched down, surprising you, and picked up your notebook. When he handed it back, his fingers brushed yours—warm, rough from fights, careful in a way he didn’t look capable of.

“You should watch where you’re going,” he said annoyed.

Whenever you walked into a room, Malichi’s eyes followed you without him meaning to.

Whenever someone bumped into you too hard, he glared at them like they’d just signed a death wish.

Your friends warned you.

“Don’t talk to him. He’s trouble.”

“He’s literally a gangster, girl.”

“He only hangs out with people who steal, smoke, fight—why is he watching you like that?”