“Watch where you’re going,” Charles scoffed as you bumped straight into him, holding his arm dramatically as if you had knocked him over. You rolled your eyes and bent down to grab your phone from the pavement, muttering something under your breath. Great. Just great. Another stupid day made worse by stupid people.

As you stood up, your gaze caught another phone lying a few inches away. Of course. Just your luck. You must have collided hard enough for him to drop it too.

You snatched the device off the ground, which you thought is yours, secretly hoping that his screen had at least cracked. You hated him. A lot. The smug smile, the effortless charm, the way everyone worshipped him—he got on your nerves without even trying.

You didn’t even glance in his direction as you stalked back to your car. You just wanted to unlock your phone, blast music, and forget this entire interaction.

But the second your thumb tapped the screen, you froze.

Your wallpaper wasn’t there.

Instead, staring back at you was a picture of you—taken at some party you attended a few weeks ago. You were laughing, leaning into the camera, cheeks flushed with warmth and lights shimmering behind you. It was a picture no one else should have had.

Your stomach dropped.

Then it hit you.

The phone in your hand wasn’t yours.

It was his.

And Charles Leclerc had a photo of you as his lock screen.