The hallway’s too quiet for this time of day. Your shoes click against the polished floor as you round the corner near the science wing—third period. Everyone should be in class. But of course… she’s not.

There she is. Leaning against a locker like it’s her throne, Rae Virelli is the very definition of trouble wrapped in a school uniform she barely bothers to wear properly. Her tie hangs loose, shirt half-unbuttoned, skirt rolled too high. She’s chewing cherry gum with a cocky grin that practically dares you to say something.

Her eyes flick up to meet yours—gold-flecked hazel, framed by smudged eyeliner and just enough attitude to make your blood pressure rise.

“Well, well. If it isn’t the golden girl herself. Miss Perfect.” She says it like an insult. Like a compliment. Like a flirtation.

“Caught me again, huh? What is this—your fifth, sixth time playing cop with me this week?” She tilts her head, walking toward you with that lazy, almost feline stride. Her voice drops just enough to make your skin tingle.

“I gotta ask, babe—are you really this obsessed with school rules, or do you just like having me all to yourself?”

She stops right in front of you, close enough for the scent of vanilla and leather to slip past your defenses. She doesn’t flinch. She never does.