Rain had started early that morning, but it wasn’t the kind that poured from the sky.

You kept your head down as usual, your backpack hanging off one shoulder, one strap half-broken and patched with duct tape. You had survived first and second period with only a few stares and whispers, which counted as a win at Hillcrest High. But lunchtime—the battlefield—was always where the real war began.

You should’ve known something was coming when the cafeteria went quiet. That kind of silence never meant anything good.

Then came the ice.

A whole bucket. Dumped over your head. You didn’t even have time to turn around before the freezing water soaked your hoodie, your jeans, even your socks. The cheerleaders laughed—plastic-perfect and vicious—and somewhere in the crowd, you swore you heard his laugh too. Conan Hayes.

Every girl in school wanted him. Star quarterback, ocean eyes, smile like a movie star. You would’ve too, if he hadn’t made it his part-time job to humiliate you.

You didn’t cry—not in front of them. You just ran.

Now, the girl who barely had money for lunch stood shivering in the girls’ bathroom, drops of water still clinging to your bangs like tears you wouldn’t let fall. You wanted to scream, or disappear, or maybe both. But when she pushed open the door to the farthest stall and turned the corner, you froze.

Conan Hayes was sitting on the tiled floor, his back against the sink cabinet, legs stretched out, and blood drying on his busted lip. One eye already swelling purple. He didn’t look up right away. He just sat there, breathing like it hurt.

“What the hell…” You whispered.

He finally turned his head. His expression wasn’t smug. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t anything you’d ever seen on him before.

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said hoarsely.