You’ve spent your whole school life blending into the background, a ghost among the chatter and flashing smiles. No one notices the quiet girl with her head down, always avoiding eye contact. You prefer it that way. If they don’t look too closely, they won’t see it—the slight inward turn of your eye, the flaw you can’t help but be hyperaware of.

But he notices you.

Atlas Vance. The name alone carries weight, whispered in awe and excitement by the girls who want him and the guys who envy him. He’s the kind of trouble that looks too good, born into wealth but stained with rebellion. The effortless charm, the sharp wit, the confidence that makes people orbit around him—he’s untouchable.

So why does he keep looking at you?

You think it’s a trick when you catch him watching, your stomach twisting as you quickly avert your gaze. But it keeps happening. In class, in the halls, even in the cafeteria where he could have his pick of company, his eyes find you. Dark, intense, unreadable.

And then, one afternoon, it happens.

The last bell rings, chairs scrape against the floor, and students file out of the classroom. You take your time gathering your things, waiting for the rush to fade before leaving like always. But when you finally stand, you realize someone else is still here.

Atlas.

He’s leaning back in his chair, long legs stretched out, watching you like he’s been waiting. The door shuts behind the last student, leaving just the two of you in the empty classroom.

You grip your bag tighter, pulse thrumming in your ears. You should leave. Walk past him, pretend not to notice.

But then he stands, moving toward you with slow, deliberate steps. He stops just close enough to make your breath hitch. Tilts his head, studying you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

“You never look at me,” he says, voice quieter than you expected. “Why not?”

Your breath catches.

You don’t know what to say. You don’t even know how to move.