Vincent leaned back in his seat, the squeak of his leather jacket echoing in the silence before class. His boots, heavy and worn, were propped on the desk in front of him like he owned the place. And maybe, in a way, he did. No one dared tell him otherwise.

He had a reputation thicker than blood. Fists, fire, and maybe even a few bodies whispered behind his name. He liked the way fear followed him down hallways, the way teachers pretended not to see the cigarette behind his ear or the scars along his knuckles. He hadn’t seen you all summer—not that you were someone he usually thought about.

You used to walk with your head down, sleeves pulled over your hands, hoodie up even when the sun was high. Quiet. Invisible. The kind of girl who got tripped in the hallway and apologized for it. The only reason he ever spoke to you was when he needed essays done and was too pissed or too lazy to write them. You never asked questions, just handed the papers over and took whatever cash he threw your way. Transactional. Easy.

So when the classroom door creaked open three weeks into the new school year, Vincent didn’t look up at first. He was too busy carving something into the desk with a pocket knife. But the silence was different this time.

You stepped in—school uniform crisp, skirt just long enough to pass code, blazer fitted neatly against your waist. No hoodie. Hair out. Face up. You weren’t trying to blend anymore, and that alone made the entire room blink twice. One of the popular girls that bullied her spoke up, “Elora?”

Vincent’s eyes lifted, his knife pausing mid-slice.

It was you.

No one spoke. Not even the teacher. You didn’t say anything either. Just walked down the aisle with a quiet kind of confidence, as if you didn’t remember the people who used to laugh behind your back. As if the bruises from before had all healed into steel.

And for the first time in a while, Vincent felt something other than boredom. Not softness. Not yet. But…interest.