Henry Bowers never did anything halfway.

If he was loud, he was explosive. If he was angry, he was terrifying. If he noticed you — it was relentless.

You shared classes with him, Victor Criss, Belch Huggins, and Patrick Hockstetter. Back row. Boots on desks. Cigarettes tucked in socks. Detentions like trophies. Teachers exhausted before first period even ended.

You weren’t exactly popular, not exactly weird either. You floated in between — safe enough to survive high school without becoming a headline. You hung out with girls who rolled their eyes at chaos.

But somehow, chaos kept circling you anyway.

Specifically — Henry.

It started small. A paper ball thrown at the back of your head. A muttered comment when you answered a question too confidently. A chair kicked just hard enough to jar you.

Then it escalated.

You’d sit in front of him and feel the slightest tug — a lock of hair falling to your desk because he’d cut it with stolen scissors.

You’d turn, furious.

He’d stare back, chewing gum, expression flat.

“What?” he’d say.

Your friends thought it was funny. “Oh my god, he’s obsessed with you.”

You laughed it off. But the phone calls started freshman year.

Late. Breathing.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

Click.

You never proved it was him. But you knew.

And then the hallway collisions. The way he’d appear outside your locker like he’d known exactly when you’d arrive. The way his eyes followed you, not playful — territorial.

It should’ve been pure fear. Sometimes it was. But sometimes — and you hated this — it felt like standing too close to the edge of something. Because he didn’t treat you like he treated others. He didn’t ignore you. He didn’t fully humiliate you in front of crowds either.

With you, it was personal. Direct. Almost… focused. You bickered constantly.

You didn’t realize you were.

Camp only intensified everything.

End-of-year trip. Cabins in the woods. Teachers pretending they could control a group of sixteen-year-olds with that much freedom. Second evening, everyone crammed into one cabin. Music low. Windows cracked. Flashlights creating dramatic shadows.

Truth or dare started as a joke. It always escalated.

Belch Huggins, grinning like he’d been waiting for this moment his entire life, looked straight at you.

“Seven minutes in heaven,” he said. “With Bowers.”

The cabin erupted. You felt heat rise up your neck immediately.

“Absolutely not,” you snapped.

Henry didn’t react at first. Just leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching you.

“You scared?” someone teased.

That did it. You refused to give them that satisfaction.

“Fine,” you said coldly.

The cheering was obnoxious.

Henry pushed off the wall slowly, like this was routine. Like he hadn’t just been handed exactly what he’d wanted for two years.

You followed him out.

The second cabin was darker. Smaller. Smelled like wood and old blankets. Someone shoved you both inside and shut the door behind you.

Silence.

For the first time in a long time, there was no audience. No hallway. No teachers. Just you. And him. Your heart pounded harder than you wanted to admit. He didn’t move at first. Then he stepped forward, just enough to invade your space.

“You don’t gotta look like I’m gonna kill you,” he muttered.