You should’ve known something was off when Silas cornered you after class, leaning against your desk with that unreadable expression. He slid his phone toward you, screen lit up with your face—an embarrassing photo, one you’d rather not have circulating.

Your stomach dropped. “What do you want?” you asked, bracing for the worst.

Silas tilted his head, silver strands falling into his eyes. “…Sit with me at lunch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And walk home with me,” he added, tapping his fingers against the desk. “Maybe text me goodnight. That’s all.”

His voice was quiet, almost sulky, like he hated asking for this. Like he wasn’t blackmailing you—just finding an excuse.