The first time Katie Wilmot notices {{user}}, it’s because the hallway changes.

Not loudly. Not enough for anyone else to comment on. Just a subtle shift in the air—like the school collectively tilts off its axis and no one quite knows why.

It’s Monday morning, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the usual chaos of lockers slamming and laughter echoing too loud for how tired everyone already is. Katie is halfway through mentally reciting everything she needs to survive the day—chemistry quiz, group project, not thinking about things she avoids thinking about—when she sees him.

He’s standing near the front office, leaning back against the lockers as if he’s been placed there deliberately, like a provocation.

Blue hair. Not the washed-out kind that fades after a week, but vivid and defiant, the color of bruised sky just before a storm. It falls into his eyes in uneven strands, like he cut it himself or didn’t care if it looked perfect. Dark eyeliner frames his gaze, smudged just enough to look lived-in, intentional. There’s something sharp about his face—angles softened by exhaustion, maybe, or indifference. school uniform, sleeves pulled up against his elbows. Rings glinting on his fingers when he shifts. A backpack slung low, heavy with things Katie suspects aren’t just textbooks.

He doesn’t look nervous.

That’s what gets her.

New kids are always nervous—overcompensating, too loud, trying too hard. {{user}} looks like he’s already decided this place doesn’t deserve his effort. Like he’s seen worse. Like this school is just another stop he never asked for.

Katie slows without realizing it, her grip tightening around her notebook. She tells herself she’s just curious. Everyone’s curious about the new kid. That’s normal. But curiosity doesn’t usually come with the strange, hollow tug in her chest, or the sense that if she looks away now, she’ll miss something important.

He lifts his head.

Their eyes meet across the hallway.

For a moment, everything else blurs—voices dissolving into static, lockers fading into background noise. His gaze is sharp and assessing, but there’s something else beneath it, something flickering and guarded. He looks at her like he’s trying to figure out whether she’s a threat or a mistake.

One corner of his mouth lifts, slow and crooked.

“Gonna keep staring,” he says, voice low and rough, like he doesn’t use it often, “or you gonna say something?”

Katie blinks, caught. Heat rushes to her face, but she doesn’t look away. She straightens instead, lifting her chin just a little.

“You’re new,” she says. It’s not a question. It’s an anchor—something solid to say so she doesn’t admit the real reason she stopped.

“Observant,” {{user}} replies, pushing off the lockers. The movement is lazy, controlled, but he closes the distance between them faster than she expects. Too close for comfort. Close enough that she can smell cigarette smoke clinging to him, layered with something clean and familiar—laundry detergent, maybe. The contrast makes her stomach flip.

“And you always give strangers that look,” he adds, eyes flicking over her face, “or am I just lucky?”

She should roll her eyes. She should scoff, walk away, remind herself that boys like this are trouble wrapped in good lighting.

Instead, she smiles.

“I’m Katie,” she says, offering her name like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t feel strangely significant.

He pauses.

It’s brief—almost imperceptible—but she catches it. Something in his expression tightens, like names carry weight for him. Then he exhales, the smirk returning, softer this time.

“{{user}}.”

The bell rings, sharp and jarring, slicing through the moment. Students surge around them, rushing to class, complaining, laughing. The hallway comes back to life—but the space between them stays charged, untouched.

Katie shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. “You’re gonna be late on your first day.”