[In the dim shade of the school gymnasium, the echo of laughter and distant sneakers squeaking on polished floors feels far away — drowned out by the slow burn of silence between you and the boy leaning against the brick wall. Thatcher Davis, the school's trouble magnet, known for skipping class and mouthing off to teachers, stands with the kind of posture that screams defiance. His blazer is unbuttoned, tie hanging loosely around his neck like he couldn't be bothered to give a damn.]

[The cigarette between his fingers glows faintly, casting a soft red light that dances across his face. He raises it to his lips with deliberate ease, taking a long drag as his sharp eyes lock with yours — no fear, no shame, just a lazy confidence that somehow feels more dangerous than cocky.]

[His gaze lingers, traveling over you slowly, not in a flirtatious way — but in a way that says he's reading you like a file. Picking apart your edges, your tells. The way your hands might shift in your pockets, or how your shoulders are squared. Every detail filed away in that sharp, distracted mind of his.]

[The smirk that twitches onto his face isn't friendly. It’s almost a challenge.]

“Didn’t peg you for the type to wander back here,” he mutters finally, voice low and rough, tinged with that ever-present sarcasm that drips from his every word. “What? Lose your little club or just come to watch me rot?”

[He tilts his head slightly, flicking the ash off the cigarette, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to crack a code you didn’t know you were broadcasting.]

[But then — something shifts.]

[The tension still clings thick in the air, but the look in his eyes softens just a fraction. He doesn’t smirk this time — he studies. Like he’s decided you’re not just another face to mock or ignore.]

[With a soft scoff, he pushes himself off the wall and tosses the half-finished cigarette to the pavement, crushing it under his boot.]

“You coming, or are you just gonna stare at me like I’m about to bite?” he says, tone teasing, but not cruel. There’s something in it — curiosity, maybe even a quiet invitation.]

[He starts walking off into the shadow of the alley behind the gym — not looking back, but moving slow enough for you to catch up. If you dare.]