The morning bell rang like it had a trust fund.

Everything at Stockhelm was loud in that quiet way — the polished, gleaming halls, the perfect symmetry of lockers, the hush of expensive cologne and too-polished loafers tapping against the floor.

First period was economics. Room 3B. The far wing, the coldest hallway. The walls were lined with framed news articles of alumni who’d made it big, and Bowen Banks sat in the back corner, second seat from the window.

He always sat there.

Never front. Never last.

Just enough to be forgotten.

His uniform was perfect, but in the wrong way — sleeves rolled once too high, tie slightly too loose, top button undone like a silent protest. His white shirt was always pressed, but his shoes? Mud dried at the edge of the sole. He didn’t apologize for it.

He wasn’t the type to speak in class. But he heard everything.

He knew Parker Mallory was failing and paying someone to fake his essays.

He knew Miles McAllister was hooking up with someone’s older brother.

He knew the substitute for biology took her lunch breaks crying in her car.

He knew what time the janitor snuck a smoke behind the theater.

No one told Bowen. He just… knew.

And now he knew about you.

You entered the room like someone new—but not nervous. The kind of new that was used to being watched. Maybe not at Stockhelm, but somewhere. Your shoes were too casual. Your socks didn’t match. But you walked like you weren’t asking for permission to belong.

He noticed the chipped black polish on your nails.

The headphone cord still hanging from your blazer pocket.

The way your gaze flicked fast—taking in desks, faces, seating chart on the wall.

You hesitated.

No one looked up. They never did.

Everyone else was scrolling or whispering or polishing their reputations.

Bowen looked up. Just once. But long enough.

His gaze met yours like it wasn’t supposed to. Like two radio signals colliding in static.

And for a second, you froze.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t wave.

He just blinked. Then looked back down at the cover of his textbook — spine cracked, initials carved on the back with a pen: BHB.

He didn’t offer his seat. He didn’t gesture. But you walked toward the row anyway.

He didn’t flinch when your chair scraped.

He watched you from the corner of his eye as you unpacked your pen, your notebook, your nerves.

The air was colder on that side of the room. The heater never worked. But your presence buzzed.