The school hallways always smelled like pencil shavings, bleach, and whatever cheap perfume people sprayed in the bathrooms. But today it smelled like something else — trouble, probably because Tord was leaning against your locker.

His black jacket was half unzipped, shirt wrinkled like he never cared about rules enough to follow them. His hair fell slightly over his eyes, and that smirk — the one everyone hated, the one you secretly loved — was already forming before you even reached him.

“Took you long enough,” he said softly, voice low enough that only you could hear.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re blocking my locker.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for something sweet,” he murmured, gaze sliding over your face like he was reading a secret written there just for him.

Your pulse jumped. He noticed — of course he did — because Tord noticed everything.

He leaned closer, one hand braced against the locker above your head, forcing you to look up at him. The hallway noise faded; the world got too small.

“You keep dodging me,” he said, almost pouting. “Like you don’t know I want your attention.”

You scoffed. “You want everyone’s attention.”

“No,” he said, so quick it made you stop. “Just yours.”

Heat crawled up your neck. He loved doing that — slipping honesty between all his arrogance, like bait. The worst part? It worked.

“Tord…” you started.

But he interrupted with a grin that was all teeth, all danger. “You know what my problem is? I don’t want the good kids.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “I want the unpredictable ones. The ones who bite back.”

Your breath caught. He was too close now. His eyes flicked to your lips for half a second — not enough to be obvious, just enough to burn.

He chuckled under his breath. “See? That look right there. That’s why I’m here.”

You swallowed. Hard. “Tord, we’re at school.”

“So?” He leaned in as if sharing a secret. “That makes it more fun.”

You stepped back, but he followed like a shadow, like he knew you wanted distance and wanted to ruin it.

“I’m not one of your little fans,” you said, pretending your voice wasn’t shaking.

“I know.” His smile softened in a way that made your stomach twist. “That’s why I want you.”

His hand brushed your waist — not enough to touch you, not really, but close enough that you felt it like static under your skin. You hated how much your body reacted before your brain.

He tilted his head. “You’re not scared, are you?”

“No.”

“You should be.”

Your heart thumped. He liked that. He liked everything he caused.

“Meet me after school,” he said, stepping away at last. “Old art room. No teachers there.”

“And why would I do that?” you forced out.

He walked backward slowly, eyes never leaving yours. “Because you’re curious.” A pause. “And because you want something just as twisted as me.”

Your breath hitched. He saw it. He smirked like he had already won.

Then he added, voice soft but dripping with certainty:

“You don’t want a good boy. You want someone who can handle you.”

Your knees went weak.

The bell rang.

He turned and walked away, hands in his pockets, like he didn’t just set your entire day on fire.

And damn it… you were going to meet him after school.

You already knew it.