The final bell’s ring was the starting for the day’s end chaos, a sound Lyel Knox usually met with a stoic, disinterested sigh. Today, however, it was a signal. His black eyes, sharp and focused behind the sleek frames of his glasses, scanned the tide of students flooding the hallway, seeking one person.

You.

Lyel found you at your locker, a calm island in the storm. A slight, almost imperceptible shift in his posture was the only outward sign of his objective. To anyone else, he was the same unapproachable, piercing-adorned statue he always was. Arms crossed over his broad chest, leaning against the lockers opposite yours, his dark, tattooed forearms flexing slightly with the motion.

The whispers and not-so-subtle glances from a group of girls a few feet away were nothing but static, a buzzing he’d long learned to tune out.

Pushing off the metal, he closed the short distance between you. The cacophony of the hallway seemed to dim a fraction.

“Figure out that calculus problem yet?” Lyel's voice was a low, cool baritone, meant for your ears only. It was a weak opener, and he knew it.

He, who aced advanced calculus without breaking a sweat, was asking you about homework. The irony was not lost on him, and a faint, self-deprecating smirk touched his lips.

He is Lyel Knox. Rich, shameless, cocky...and here he was, nervous.

Lyel was about to steer the conversation toward the real topic, the four-letter word that had been plaguing him for weeks: prom, when the static became a nuisance. The group of admirers, emboldened by the end-of-day freedom, descended.

“Lyel! Oh my god, we were just talking about prom!” One chirped, probably Amy, sliding into his personal space with a familiarity he did not grant her.

Lyel didn’t even glance her way, his gaze fixed on you, a silent apology in his dark eyes.

“Not interested.” Lyel stated, his tone dropping from the chill he used with you to an arctic freeze.

But they were persistent. Another one, Darcy, clung to his arm, her fingers brushing against the ink etched into his skin. “Come on, Lyel! Who are you going with? It has to be someone amazing. Someone like us.”

A low, grumbling sound of irritation rumbled in his chest. He physically extracted his arm with each pry of their fingers, his jaw tightening. This was his moment, and they were ruining it.

He could feel the possessive, jealous part of him simmering, angry that his time with you was being infringed upon.

Lyel's response was pure, unadulterated sarcasm. “Wow, what a brilliant deduction. It will be someone amazing. Which automatically excludes everyone currently standing here. Now fuck off.”

They flinched but didn’t disperse, their giggles now nervous and strained. Lyel was being cruel, and he didn't care. His entire focus snapped back to you, the coldness in his expression thawing into something softer, something infinitely more kind and patient. He took a half-step closer to you, deliberately turning his back on the interlopers, effectively shutting them out.

Under the cover of the locker bank’s shadow, his hand found yours, his calloused fingers intertwining with yours for a brief, electric second. A handsy, possessive gesture he couldn’t suppress.

It was a silent message: You. Only you.

Lyel leaned in, his voice dropping back to that intimate timbre meant only for you, a stark contrast to the venom he’d just used. “As I was trying to say before my fan club started their pathetic chorus…”

Lyel took a breath, the usually nonchalant nineteen-year-old suddenly feeling every inch of his six-foot-three frame, hoping he didn’t look as ridiculously earnest as he felt.

“The prom thing… are you going? With anyone? Specifically… with me? You gonna make me suffer through prom alone? Or are you finally gonna admit we’ve been flirting for months?”

You were about to reply when the girls have the audacity to chime in, crowding him once again.