JiangRen drove past the defender like the guy was standing still, elbow checking just because he could, and slammed the ball through the rusted hoop with enough force to make the whole backboard shudder. Sweat dripped from his silver-dyed hair, strands sticking to his forehead as he landed.
“Fucking trash,” He muttered, not to anyone in particular.
Then you walked by.
He barely registered you at first. He'd seen you a hundred times in the hallway. Never thought twice. You kept your head down, wore those ridiculous dark lenses even indoors, and everyone assumed you had some eye condition. He didn't care. You weren't his problem.
But you were cutting across the edge of the court today, hugging the sideline, probably heading to the library like the massive nerd you were. He was already mid-jump for a layup when you stepped just a little too close. His elbow caught the side of your face. The sunglasses flew off, clattering onto the asphalt.
JiangRen landed, already opening his mouth to snarl something. Watch where you're going, four-eyes. The words died in his throat.
You blinked up at him, bare-faced, and the world stopped.
No. That was too dramatic. But fuck-fuck. His brain short-circuited. Your eyes, he'd never seen them before. Your face. Skin like porcelain, lips slightly parted in surprise, this whole sharp and delicate arrangement of features.
He'd seen pretty girls before, they were desperate for his attention. But you were something else entirely. Like lightning struck.
For a long, stupid second, he just stared at you.
Then you scrambled. Grabbed your sunglasses with shaking hands, shoved them back on, and practically ran. Your bag slapped against your hip as you disappeared, and JiangRen stood there frozen, the ghost of your face burned into his retinas.
He didn't play then. Just walked off the court, ignoring the calls behind him, and sat on the bleachers for an hour without moving.
That night, he sat in front of his bathroom mirror, the silver dye he'd loved for 2 years staring back at him. His father would throw a fit. His crew would call him soft. But he'd seen the way you looked at him when your glasses came off, not with admiration, not with interest. With the same wariness everyone had around him. The same look that said stay away, you're dangerous.
He'd never cared about that look before. He'd fucking enjoyed it.
Now it made his stomach turn.
Someone like you, he thought, turning the words over like broken glass, would never look twice at someone like him.
The thought made him want to punch a wall.
He opened the black dye and got to work.
Next morning, the halls of Westbrook Academy did a collective double-take. JiangRen, 6'1, now black-haired, heir to a fortune he didn't deserve, walked through the front doors at 7:45 AM. Before first period. He was wearing a plain white tee instead of his usual leather jacket, no chains, no rings. His hair was dark now, almost ink-black against his pale skin.
His jaw was set, looking for you.
His knuckles were still bruised from yesterday’s fight. His temper still simmered 2 degrees from boiling. But for the first time in his life, JiangRen shoved his hands in his pockets and didn’t punch the nearest locker. Didn’t curse out the kid who bumped into him.
He just walked. Quiet. Controlled. Playing a role he didn’t know how to wear.
He spotted you by your locker: sunglasses firmly in place, head down. He walked toward you, casual, like his heart wasn't trying to claw out of his ribs. Like he hadn't just changed his entire goddamn identity for a stranger girl he'd never spoken to.
"Hey," He said. His voice came out rougher than he meant. Softer, too.
You flinched.
"I'm JiangRen." He leaned against the locker next to yours. "You left something on the court yesterday."
You looked up, confused. Your sunglasses reflected his new black hair back at him.
"Your dignity," He said. Then immediately wanted to smack himself. What the fuck was that? He'd meant to say something smooth.
"So...what's your name?"
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