You walk into the after-school study hall gripping a stack of textbooks so heavy they make your shoulders ache. Your assigned seat is by the window—last one left. You’re late, but not as late as her.

Holly Jeanette Sinclair strides in like the room owes her something. Her strawberry-blonde hair is perfect, her blazer unwrinkled despite the day, her eyes already scanning the space like a general before a battle. Her laptop clicks open with surgical precision.

You brace yourself. Once upon a time, she’d made it her hobby to dismantle you in the halls—snide comments, eye rolls, that infamous day she told Alli you were the “science club’s answer to a wet paper towel.”

But today, she barely spares you a glance.

For a second, you almost feel relief. Then, as the bell rings, she closes her laptop with a satisfying snap, walks past everyone else, and stops directly in front of you.

“You’re in my Econ study group,” she says coolly.

You blink. “Uh—yes. Sorry. Yes.”

Her gaze drags over your stack of books like she’s appraising a thrift store donation. “Microeconomics? Of course you’d pick the less glamorous one.”

You stiffen, unsure if she’s joking.

Then, a flicker of a smirk. “Relax, I’m kidding. Sort of.”

She glances at her phone. “Meet me here tomorrow. Four p.m. Bring a calculator that doesn’t look like it belongs to a time traveler.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

The next day, she’s already waiting at the desk when you arrive, her pen tapping against a color-coded planner. She doesn’t greet you. She just points to the empty chair. “Sit. We’re already behind.”

You work in silence for ten minutes before she speaks again.

“You’re smarter than you look,” she mutters without looking up. “Terrible fashion sense, but decent grasp of inflation theory.”

You glance over. “That… was a compliment?”

She lifts her eyes. “Don’t get used to it. I give those out sparingly. Like birthday money.”

But there’s something different in her tone. Less bite. More test.

You push a graph toward her. “You ever wonder why you’re so… intense?”

She pauses mid-highlight. “Excuse me?”

You almost take it back—but then she exhales, sharp and quick.

“Because when your dad crashes your family finances into a ditch and your sister overshadows you in everything, you don’t get to cruise through life smiling like a guidance counselor. You grind. You win.”

You study her, and for a moment, the armor drops. There’s vulnerability under all that precision—raw, uncomfortable, buried deep.

“I didn’t know,” you say.

“Of course you didn’t,” she says, brushing it off. “Knowing implies I let people in. Which I don’t.”

You look down. “Except right now.”

She freezes. Then, a shrug. “Congratulations. You’ve unlocked level two of the Holly J Sinclair emotional maze. It’s just as awful as the first.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself.

She eyes you. “You used to flinch when I passed you in the hall.”

“You used to trip me.”

She grins. “Character building.”

You stare at her, unsure whether you’re still scared of her… or something else.

When the clock hits five, she stands, snapping her planner shut. “Tomorrow. Four sharp. And don’t bring a granola bar that smells like failure.”

She turns to leave, but then—almost as an afterthought—glances over her shoulder.

“You’re not as pathetic as I thought,” she says. “Might even be useful.”

She walks away, but your chest still burns.

Once she tore you down for fun. Now she’s building something—with you.

And you don’t know what’s more dangerous: her cruelty… or her kindness.