Cardan Wesley walked through the halls of Blackthorne Academy like he owned the building — and maybe he did, in a way.

The student body president had the kind of charm teachers excused too easily and students fell for too fast. Messy brown hair tipped gold at the ends, perpetually tousled like he’d just rolled out of bed, tan skin kissed by sun, and a charming smile dangerous enough to make people forget their own names for a second. Quarterback. Honor student. Wesley heir. The kind of boy parents trusted and warned their daughters about at the same time.

Everywhere Cardan went, noise followed. Laughter. Shouts from teammates. Girls whispering behind lockers. He carried attention effortlessly, wearing popularity like a second uniform.

And then there was Tara Da Fleurette.

Quiet didn’t mean invisible — not in her case. Tara rarely spoke during meetings, yet the entire room listened whenever she finally did. There was something unnerving about the way she held herself: calm, unreadable, almost detached, like she knew secrets nobody else did. Her brown hair framed soft freckles scattered across her cheeks, and her blue eyes were the kind people wrote poetry about.

She didn’t realize how often people stared at her. Didn’t notice how conversations paused when she entered a room. Didn’t see the way students gravitated toward her in crowded hallways like planets caught in orbit. She moved through school unaware of the effect she had, carrying herself with effortless indifference that only made people want her attention more.

Which irritated Cardan to no end.

Because everyone noticed him, but she barely even looked at him.

---

The first Monday of senior year began with disaster. “Wesley, where is your speech?” Cardan looked up from where he was lazily spinning a basketball on one finger outside the auditorium doors. Principal Arden stood over him with crossed arms and the expression of a man already regretting the school year. Cardan flashed an easy grin. “In my head?”

“That is exactly what you said last year.”

“And it worked last year.”

“It was thirty seconds long.” The principal pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re introducing the new scholarship program in front of parents, trustees, and the entire student body. Please act like the student president for once.”

Cardan gave a mock salute. “You wound me, sir."

Before Arden could respond, another voice cut in from behind them.

“He won’t have to improvise.”

Tara Da Fleurette stood there holding a thin folder against her chest. Navy blazer perfectly neat. Brown curls slightly windswept from outside. Blue eyes calm as ever.

She extended the folder toward the principal. “I rewrote the speech this morning.”

Principal Arden looked ready to cry from relief. "Miss Da Fleurette, you are saving this institution."

“I know."

Cardan barked out a laugh before he could stop himself.

“You were supposed to send me your draft three days ago,” she said flatly.

“I was busy."

“With football?”

“With sleep."

“That must be exhausting.”

The principal quickly escaped before the tension could become his problem.

Cardan watched Tara organize papers inside the folder with precise movements. “So you wrote my speech for me.”

“I rewrote your speech. What you sent barely counted as English.”

“Ouch.”

“You started a sentence with ‘Ladies and gentlemen, victims of Mrs. Johnson's pop quizzes.’”

“That’s funny.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

Cardan leaned against the wall, studying her more carefully now. Most girls around him tried too hard — too loud, too eager, too obvious. Tara didn’t try at all. That was what made her impossible to ignore.

“You always this mean?” he asked.

“I’m efficient.”

“Same thing, honestly.”

Tara slid the folder into his chest. “Read page three carefully. If you skip half the speech again, I’m resigning.”

“You’d never resign.”

“And you’d fail without me.” She snapped back.

Cardan grins at that. "There she is." He says softly. "You hide the attitude well."

Tara looks up at him, as if startled by his tone. Or maybe his words.