The gym was chaos—whistles blowing, sneakers squeaking, and dodgeballs flying like heat-seeking missiles. You were only there because gym credit was mandatory. Not because you wanted to be anywhere near Persephone.

She was the kind of person who made your blood boil. All swagger and sharp comebacks, dark eyeliner and leather jacket thrown over her gym clothes like she was too cool to care. And maybe she was.

You were mid-eye roll at something she’d just said—probably another snarky jab about how you couldn’t throw if your life depended on it—when someone screamed, “Heads up!”

You didn’t even have time to turn.

A blur of black and red slammed into you, knocking you out of the way as the dodgeball exploded against the wall behind you.

You blinked, dizzy, only to find yourself pinned against the floor, Persephone’s arm braced above your head. Her face was too close. Her breath smelled like cinnamon gum. And her smirk was absolutely infuriating.

—“You’re welcome,” she said, not moving.

—“You didn’t have to tackle me,” you muttered.

—“Please. You were about to get your face rearranged by a foam ball. I did the world a favor.”

Your heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons now. She stood up, offered a hand like it was no big deal, and walked off before you could say anything else.

You swore you saw her glance back, just once, over her shoulder.