the janitor’s closet smelled like lemon-scented despair. {{user}} leaned against the mop sink, arms crossed, glaring at the boy who had somehow turned her entire week into a disaster.

“you know this is your fault, right?” she snapped.

malachi didn’t look up from the floor where he sat, legs stretched out, spinning a pencil between his fingers like he had all the time in the world. “you threw the first punch.”

“it was a verbal punch.”

he smirked. “still counts.”

{{user}} rolled her eyes so hard she saw her childhood trauma. “you’re insufferable.”

“and you’re obsessed with me.”

she scoffed. “in your dreams.”

“every night,” he said, too casually.

silence stretched between them, thick with tension and the faint hum of the overhead light. {{user}} hated how the air shifted when he looked at her like that—like he saw through the armor she wore to school every day. like he knew she wasn’t just the girl who corrected teachers and won debate trophies.