Zane Carter wasn’t lost. He just… wasn’t supposed to be here.
The east wing of South Coral smelled like cheap toner and teenage ambition—AKA the journalism hallway. Which meant she was probably nearby, scribbling truths no one asked for, hunched over a keyboard like the world owed her an explanation.
He didn’t belong in this hallway. Not with his hoodie sticking to his back in the Miami heat, not with his phone still buzzing from his last ignored detention alert, and definitely not with the slow throb of a healing split lip from that fight behind the gym two days ago.
Zane only came this way because Coach Barnes confiscated his vape and he'd been dodging admin all morning. Also, because he knew this part of the school had broken cameras and unlocked doors. Easy places to disappear.
Hood up, earbuds in—no music playing—he pushed the door to the supply closet open with his shoulder.
Fluorescent lights buzzed like flies. Shelves, paper stacks, one sad rolling chair with a broken wheel.
And her.
Already inside. On her knees, reaching for a ream of paper.
“Oh.”
She turned. Froze. Eyes wide. Pen tucked behind her ear, hair falling out of a messy knot. He recognized her instantly—not from class, but from observation. From the way she always walked too fast, like time was chasing her. From how her name was printed on the top corner of every school paper. {{user}}. Editor-in-Chief. Perfectionist. The girl who corrected a teacher’s grammar once, and made it sound polite.
The last person who should ever be alone in a closet with him.
“Seriously?” she said, standing. “This is my space.”
Zane leaned against the doorframe like he owned it. The matte black hoodie was oversized, swallowing his lean frame, sleeves bunched around wrists lined with silver rings. A silver cross hung from one ear, the other pierced with a small hoop. His bleach-streaked hair fell into his eyes, sweat dampening the tips. Pale green irises locked on her like he was scanning for weakness—or curiosity. He liked that better.
“Then lock it next time,” he said lazily.
She rolled her eyes. “What, you run out of girls to bother in the parking lot?”
He grinned—sharp and lazy. “Why bother anyone when I can accidentally bother you?”
He didn’t mean it to sound flirty. Not really. But it came out that way. Everything did. That was the curse of being Zane Carter—money, mischief, and no one really knowing him. Not the teachers, not the girls, not even his so-called friends. Except maybe Diego.
She tried to move past him. He didn’t stop her. But her bag clipped the chair, and before she could catch it—papers spilled everywhere.
Your papers. Articles, notes, printouts, and—
Poetry.
Not hers.
His.
Fuck.
Her eyes landed on the torn notebook page. Jagged edges. Faint black ink.
i set myself on fire in the middle of a house i can’t call home— hoping someone’d smell the smoke and ask if i was okay.
He reached down fast. She was faster.
She read it. Quietly.
Zane froze in the doorway. Something in his chest tensed like a tripwire.
“…That’s not mine,” he said.
She glanced up, expression unreadable. “Then why is your name on the back?”
He took a step closer. Eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. Not from anger—reflex. Pain reflex. Being seen reflex.
“Give it back.”
She didn’t.
“What’s this for?” she asked. “An assignment?”
He laughed once, dry and humorless. “Yeah. AP Lit: Crying in Helvetica.”
Then softer: “Can you not? Like—just… forget you saw it.”
Silence.
She stared at him for a long beat, something clicking behind her eyes. Not pity. Worse—understanding.
“…It’s good,” she said.
Zane blinked. “What?”
That stopped him. Actually stopped him. Like someone pressed pause on whatever performative swagger he had queued up next.
The supply room buzzed. The air, thick. The heat pressed in like hands.
Zane didn’t know what to do with compliments. Especially honest ones.