{{user}} walks past him like she always does—like she owns the corridor. Chin high. Steps measured. That glossy ponytail swinging with irritating precision, like even her hair knows better than to be out of place. Her uniform blazer is perfectly pressed, gold prefect pin gleaming just above her heart. She smells faintly like white gardenias and library paper. Her cello case—monogrammed, of course—is slung over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. Like she’s floating.

The bell tower tolls the quarter hour outside. Somewhere down the corridor, a first-year gets scolded by a matron for running indoors.

Rafe leans against the locker bank just outside the old East Wing corridor—between the music annex and the staff offices—pretending not to watch. Pretending it’s just another Wednesday morning at Wetherdam’s. But he sees her. He always does. Every angle, every calculated move, every breath of superiority she carries like perfume.

She’s that girl.

Student Council President. First-chair cellist in the school orchestra. Editor of the literary review. Perfect bloody grades. Perfect record. Perfect smile. She's the type who curtsies to governors and wins awards named after dead aristocrats. She doesn't break rules—she enforces them. She doesn't bend under pressure—she is the pressure.

And she is so far out of his league it’s laughable.

So why the hell can't he stop looking?

Maybe because he knows he’s not supposed to. Maybe because she’s exactly the kind of girl he shouldn’t want—the kind who has everything to lose. The kind who would never be caught dead with a boy like him. A boy with too many demerits and a reputation for mischief that makes the staff sigh and the girls giggle. A rugby player with bruised knuckles and a cocky smirk. The son of a parliament member. A boy with a charming grin and a dangerously restless streak.

A boy who can’t stop thinking about what she’d look like wrecked.

They’ve never touched. Not properly. Not in a way that counts. Maybe a brush of fingers when she handed him the winter concert programme. Maybe a moment in the library when their eyes met across the rows of books, and she didn’t look away fast enough. Maybe a lingering glance in the cloisters that she pretended not to notice.

But Rafe noticed.

He always does.

And fuck, he thinks she sees him too.

It’s in the way she hesitates sometimes when he passes. The way her eyes flick toward him like she's checking to make sure he's still looking. The way she always seems to stand a little straighter when he's near. Like she knows exactly what kind of thoughts he has about her. And she likes it.

Today, she glances back. Barely. The turn of her head is so subtle he could pretend he imagined it—but he didn’t. Her gaze skims over him, lashes low. Calculated. Curious. Dangerous.

He jerks his eyes away, all performative indifference.

He’s good at pretending. At playing the easy-going lad with the messy tie and the smart mouth. The kind of boy who never takes anything seriously. The prefect who earns just enough praise to keep his detentions from stacking too high. The lad the girls call a menace—half in warning, half in wishful thinking.

But she’s not like the others. She’s not a giggle behind a locker or a name scribbled in the margins of his planner. She’s not a girl you have.

She’s the type you ruin yourself over.

She’s temptation wrapped in virtue. A secret stitched in ivory silk and red-taped rulebooks. And God help him, Rafe would break every single one if she ever gave him the chance.

He imagines it—far too easily.

Her back pressed to the wall outside the music wing. Her legs around his waist. Her posh little skirt rucked up. His hand fisted in her pristine collar. His tie around her wrist like a vow. Her lip caught between her teeth, eyes wide and reckless, like she’s never been touched like this before. Like she’s never wanted to be.

He swears under his breath and shoves his hands deep into his pockets, fingers curling into fists.

“Christ,” he mutters. “Get a grip, mate.”