Westbridge High always looked better from the outside. Morning light hit its glass windows like it was promising something fresh, something clean. But inside, it was the same noise every day — sneakers against linoleum, the echo of laughter, and that invisible tension that followed certain footsteps down the corridor.

Everyone knew when Gideon was coming.

He didn’t need to say a word. The sound of his shoes was enough to make people shift aside — half from fear, half from habit. He was the kind of senior everyone knew about but tried not to look at for too long. Teachers hated dealing with him, but they still did it with careful voices. Even the staff who used to scold him had learned to just… let him pass.

Gideon didn’t care. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

He walked with his usual crew — three guys who laughed too loud and moved like they owned the hall. Matt, Eli, and Troy. Their bags hung half-open, ties loose, every step filled with that careless confidence of people who didn’t worry about consequences. Gideon smirked at a group of freshmen who almost ran into a locker trying to get out of the way.

“Pathetic,” Eli snorted.

Yeah, same old morning. Same faces. Same boredom.

Then, halfway down the hall, something broke the pattern.

Someone was standing in the middle of the corridor — not moving, not noticing the wave of students splitting around them. A boy, new face, maybe a transfer. His uniform looked too neat for this school — tie straight, hair soft and a little messy in a way that didn’t seem planned. He was staring at a folded paper map, brows drawn in quiet focus, like he was solving a puzzle.

The hall had already started to notice. People were watching again — not at Gideon this time, but at whoever was dumb enough to block his way.

Gideon slowed a little, his group bumping into each other behind him. Matt groaned. “Why we stoppin’? Roadblock?” Eli peered over. “That’s the new kid.” Troy grinned. “Go on, boss. Show him the local customs.”

Gideon rolled his shoulders back, grin forming — that lazy, dangerous one he used to keep people moving. “Hey, pretty boy,” he called out, voice echoing over the chatter. “You blind or just lost? Hallway ain’t a parking lot.”

The words came out before he thought. It was supposed to sound mean. It always did.

The boy, {{user}}. turned around, startled. “Oh — sorry,” he said quickly, stepping aside. His tone wasn’t defensive, not scared — just… polite. Like someone who didn’t know yet how this place worked.

And for a second, Gideon forgot how to breathe.

It wasn’t the apology. It was the face. Too soft for a guy, too clean for this hallway, too real for him to laugh at. The kind of beauty that didn’t try — it just was. His chest tightened in a way he didn’t have a name for.

Behind him, his crew had gone silent too. One of them nudged him with an elbow. “Gid?”

Gideon blinked, snapped out of it, and forced his usual smirk back. “Tch. Whatever,” he muttered, brushing past like nothing happened. But his steps weren’t as steady as before.

As they walked, he found himself glancing back once — just once — and caught a glimpse of the boy heading up the stairs, sunlight painting the edge of his hair.

He didn’t even know his name yet. But somehow, that morning, Westbridge High didn’t feel like the same place anymore.