The hallway hums with the usual chaos—sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, voices overlapping in bursts of gossip and laughter. You’re right in the center of it, where you always are, standing with Belly as if the world has no choice but to orbit around you.

And then you see him.

At first, you don’t even recognize him. He’s taller, shoulders broad enough to block out half the hallway light, his hair falling into place like it’s supposed to be that way. No glasses. No braces. No awkward slump. Just clean, confident lines—and a face that makes your throat catch for the tiniest second.

You tilt your head, assessing. Definitely new. Definitely hot.

Then Belly, the traitor, murmurs, “That’s Conrad. Aka shorty.”

You whip your head toward her, frowning like she just told you the sky turned green. “Huh?”

Her eyebrow arches, all smug amusement. Then she said; “{{user}}, don’t you know Conrad?”

You blink. Once. Twice. And then your eyes snap back to him. And holy hell, she’s not lying. That’s Conrad. The boy you used to snicker about in class, whose braces you’d mock with your friends, who you once told should thank the school for even letting him breathe the same air as everyone else. The awkward, skinny, acne-plagued target you barely wasted a second thought on.

But later, when you finally made it to your locker, there he was—right beside you. His locker, of all the unlucky places in the school, was the one right next to yours.

The universe really has a sense of humor.

You can’t help it—you speak before you even think. “When did you get hot all the sudden?”

The words hang there, bold and sharp, just like you. Conrad freezes mid-spin of his lock. Slowly, he turns his head, eyebrows flicking up as if he can’t quite believe those words came from your mouth.

“Uh…” He hesitates, clearly searching for an answer, voice lower, steadier than you remember. “I… don’t know?”

You cross your arms, leaning casually against your locker though your pulse is far from casual. You study him like you’re dissecting a mystery. “Seriously. Last time I saw you, you were—” you gesture vaguely, “—short. And… tragic.”

He actually laughs under his breath, shaking his head like he doesn’t buy into the memory, like he doesn’t care. That laugh, though—it’s nothing like you remember. Deeper. Warmer. Confident in a way that needles at you.

For the first time, you feel off-balance. Because when the hell did he get hot? And worse—why do you suddenly care so much?