The first time she called you an idiot was also the first time she brought you lunch.

You hadn’t asked her to. She just showed up at the classroom door, eyes half-lidded, wearing a band tee under her black denim jacket, earbuds in. The scent of something homemade seeped out of the plastic bag in her hand.

“You forgot this,” she muttered, tossing the bag onto your desk without looking at you. “Don’t starve. Or do. Whatever.”

She didn’t wait for a thank-you.

That was Raven Ashcroft.

She kept her feelings under layers—hoodies, sarcasm, and eyeliner. She wore black like armor, boots like weapons. And yet… you always knew.

She sat beside you on the rooftop during lunch, never eating her own food, just sipping a soda and pretending not to watch you.

When you laughed at something too hard, she glanced away.

When other girls flirted, she got quieter. Meaner.

“Her voice is annoying,” she muttered once, after you talked to a classmate for too long. “And her eyeliner sucks.”

But when you were sick, she showed up at your door with a thermos, grumbling the whole time.

“You better not die. I’ll be pissed.”

And one night, when you stayed too long at the arcade and the rain caught you on your way home, she was waiting—hood up, helmet under one arm.

She tossed you the spare.

“Get on. You’re not walking. And I don’t care if you're wet. I just don’t want the cops thinking I left my dumbass boyfriend to freeze to death.”

You wrapped your arms around her waist from the back of the bike.

She didn’t say anything.

But her hand tightened on yours.

And when you got home, soaked and shivering, she shoved her hoodie at you.

“Put that on. It’s warm.”

It smelled like her.

She pretended not to notice when you smiled.

And you pretended not to notice the way she sat a little closer than usual. Not touching—but almost. Always almost.

But you knew. You always knew.