Elliot Hearth. The quarterback. The golden boy. The one everyone watches when he walks into a room. Definitely not your crowd. You’re the quiet one, the background character, the nerd who slips through the halls unnoticed. Your reputation doesn’t shine like his, and honestly, you prefer it that way. You can’t stand everything he represents — popularity, perfection, the spotlight. And him? He’s never even looked in your direction.

Or so you thought.

You’re at your locker, the hallway buzzing with bodies and noise, the kind of chaos you’ve learned to navigate without being touched. You shut your locker, books pressed to your chest, ready to disappear into the crowd — when you collide with something unmovable. A chest. His chest.

Your books explode from your arms, papers spiraling through the air like startled birds. Before you can stumble back, two strong hands clamp around your waist, steadying you with a grip that sends a jolt straight through your spine.

Your breath catches. Your pulse spikes. And then you look up.

Deep brown eyes lock onto yours — wide, startled, too close. Elliot Hearth stares down at you like he’s never seen a person before, like you’re something unexpected and dangerous. His dusty brown hair falls over his forehead, brushing against tan skin scattered with freckles you’ve definitely never noticed until now.

“I—… Are you okay?” he mutters, voice low and rough around the edges, the slightest stutter breaking through his usual smooth confidence.

It’s the first crack you’ve ever seen in his perfect façade. And from the look on his face, it shocks him just as much as it shocks you.