Fifth period, and Ezra Jennings is doing what he always does — pretending not to exist.

He’s got his hoodie up even though it's eighty-two degrees outside, sleeves pulled down over his hands, headphones in with no music playing. It’s a decoy. A tactic. A shield. People are less likely to talk to you when you look like you’re already listening to someone else. He likes the silence, the insulation. It’s his version of peace.

His locker creaks open, filled with color-coded binders and chaos hidden behind meticulous labels. Ezra exhales. Organizing things makes sense. Football rosters? No. Social interactions? God, no. But folders and highlighters? Beautiful.

And then…

The hallway gets quiet. Not literally. It’s still filled with chatter and sneaker squeaks and teachers reminding kids to pull their pants up. But Ezra feels it. Like the static right before a lightning strike. Something changes. Something enters.

He turns his head. Slowly. Carefully. The way you would if you thought making eye contact with a wild animal might kill you.

{{user}} walks in.

Big. Broad. Summer-tanned like someone who spends more time under floodlights than fluorescents. He’s wearing a gray athletic tee that clings to him like it owes him rent. Letterman jacket slung over one shoulder like it’s not already the hottest item in school. Hair a little messy, but in a way that feels intentional. A smirk playing at the corners of his mouth like he’s got a joke nobody else knows.

Ezra’s stomach drops. Full-on elevator plummet. He freezes, halfway through pulling a mechanical pencil from his backpack, hand hovering like a glitch in a video game. His mouth goes dry.

Because {{user}} isn’t just hot. He’s dangerous. Not in the “starts fights in the cafeteria” way. In the “makes Ezra forget how to breathe” way.

Jesus Christ, Ezra thinks, because swearing in his head is the only rebellion he allows himself. That’s not fair.

And then — the worst part — {{user}} laughs. Loud. Careless. Like he belongs here already. Like this whole hallway is his now. Ezra watches the way his lips move. The way his eyes light up. The way people lean in, magnetized. He’s sunshine and gravity wrapped in cleats and cocky confidence.

Ezra hates him. Ezra wants him. Ezra hates that he wants him.

And in that moment, Ezra realizes two things.

One: He is so not as straight as he’s been pretending to be. Two: Tulsa just brought a whole new problem to this town.

He slams his locker shut too fast. The sound ricochets down the hallway. {{user}} doesn’t notice. Doesn’t even glance. Just keeps walking, like he owns the place.

Ezra stays perfectly still.

Don't look again. Don't look again. Don't—

He looks.