The bell hadn’t even rung yet, but the halls of Brooklyn Visions were already alive — chatter, laughter, the dull clatter of lockers. Brooke Rosales stood by his usual spot, leaning against the metal like he had nowhere better to be. Hood up, sleeves pushed to his elbows, he looked calm — too calm. But when he saw you walking down the hall, that cool front cracked for a second. You looked effortless, like you didn’t even notice the way heads turned, but Brooke did. He always did.

You brushed past him, close enough that your shoulder grazed his arm, close enough for him to catch the faint scent of your perfume. His jaw tightened; he pretended not to look. Everyone thought you were just old friends — the kid from his block, the one who used to share fruit snacks and trouble. But behind that easy friendship were late-night texts, stolen touches in dark corners, and the kind of tension that made it hard for him to breathe. Brooke told himself it was nothing serious. Just fun. Just comfort. But when your fingers lingered on his locker door a little too long, his pulse said otherwise

“See ya in the back of school, pretty thing.”

Yes, he is in the mood.