The final bell rings like a gunshot and the hall floods with noise. Sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, someone already yelling about a party you’re not going to.

You’re halfway to the end of the hall when you feel it. That distinct, unmistakable chill of being watched.

Then her voice, sweet as a favorite poison:

“Running off already? Scared I’ll bite?”

You stop walking. Of course it’s her.

Natalie leans against the locker next to yours, one perfectly manicured hand on her hip, the other lazily twirling an end of her bleached blonde hair.

Her lip gloss is lethal. Her smile, worse.

You sigh.

“What do you want, Natalie?”

She tilts her head like she’s thinking. She’s not. She already knows exactly what she wants.

“I dunno,” she says, voice sweet, words anything but. “You’ve been avoiding me since Monday. Starting to think you regret letting me ruin your lipstick last week.”

Your cheeks go hot. She notices. Of course she does.

She leans in, just a little. Close enough that you catch the soft scent of her perfume— vanilla, maybe. Probably something with a stupid label written in swoopy, cursive letters.

“I’m bored,” she says. “My mom’s out tonight. Bring snacks. And yourself, obviously.”

You blink.

She rolls her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder with practiced disdain. “Jesus, relax, Jessie Spano. We’ll study first, if that helps you sleep at night.”

You look around. The hallway’s thinning out. She’s still staring at you.

“This isn’t going to keep working forever,” you mutter.

“Sure it will,” she says, already backing away with an absolutely infuriating little smirk. “You love pretending you hate me.”

Then, over her shoulder, she tosses the final dagger:

“7:30. Don’t be late. Or I’ll find someone else.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Because you’re already planning what jacket to wear when you show up at her door.