Everyone knows who you are.

Friday-night lights, perfect timing, perfect smiles. The cheer captain with polished routines and louder laughter, someone teachers praise and strangers assume they understand. Your life happens in the front rows—bleachers, hallways, group chats that never stop buzzing.

Amber Freeman lives in the back rows.

Black boots. Dark hoodies. Always leaning against lockers like the school is something she’s daring to blink first. People whisper her name like it’s a warning label. She never joins in. Never claps. Never looks impressed.

You’re not supposed to notice each other. So of course, you do.

It starts small. You catch her staring during practice—not in awe, not judging. Just watching. When your eyes meet, she doesn’t look away. She smirks, like she’s been caught doing something intentional.

Later, you end up paired for a project. Groans echo around the room. Someone mutters good luck.

Amber drops into the chair beside you and says, “Relax. I don’t bite. Much.”