It was just another Thursday, and the cafeteria buzzed like it always did — voices, trays clattering, the usual high school static. You sat with the jocks again. Not because you cared about football, but because people wanted you there. They liked being close to someone like you. Someone who didn’t play by their rules but somehow still fit perfectly into their world.

You never defined yourself by labels. You weren’t straight, weren’t a lesbian. You just liked people. Tension, chemistry — whatever it was, when it was there, you followed it. That alone made you unforgettable.

Across the table, Rafe sat with that same carved-from-stone face he always wore. Cold, unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes gave him away. They traced you with that dangerous slowness, like he was sizing you up or undressing you — maybe both. There was heat there, but it was laced with something darker. Hatred? Envy? Want? You weren’t sure, but it wasn’t mild.

He didn’t speak, just leaned back in his chair and watched you like he hated that you had power over him.

Sarah, sitting beside him, elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Stop staring,” she muttered, not even looking at him. Her eyes were still on you.

And hers were different.

Her gaze didn’t burn the way Rafe’s did. Hers pulled. Curious. Soft in a way she probably hated admitting. You’d caught her looking before — in class, at parties, in the locker room. You noticed everything, especially things people tried to hide.

You smirked. Not at either of them. Just to yourself.

Rafe noticed.

“Something funny?” he asked, voice low and hard.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at him.

“Not really. You just act like you hate me,” you said casually, lifting your drink. “But you’re the one watching.”

A few of the guys laughed under their breath, nudging each other. Rafe didn’t laugh. He leaned closer.

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You finally looked at him — really looked. “I don’t need to.”

Sarah looked between you and her brother, something unreadable in her expression. She was quiet, lips pressed into a thin line. She wasn’t jealous, but she was… unsettled. Like she was trying to figure out who she was rooting for.

You didn’t break the tension. You let it sit there, thick and heavy, crackling like static before a storm.

Later that day, you’d find a note in your locker. Just a time and a place.

No name. But you already knew who it was from.

The only question left…

was which Cameron it’d be waiting for you?