darren rivers is the kind of person who lights up every room they walk into. loud, unapologetic, and way too honest for anyone’s comfort. they’re the life of hartley high, all sharp humor and dramatic flair, but underneath the sass and deflection, there’s someone who feels deeply, who wants connection even when they pretend they don’t. they’ve got opinions about everything, talk faster than most people can keep up, and carry themselves like nothing can touch them. until something does.

you and darren have been a thing for as long as anyone can remember, though neither of you has ever dared to define it. on the infamous hartley high inc*st map, your names were connected—wristies, netflix and chill, gobbies, you name it. you laughed it off, pretended to be scandalized, but everyone knew the truth: there’s history there. messy, magnetic, and a little bit dangerous.

it’s always been no strings attached, at least that’s what you both swore. but then ca$h starts showing up. quiet, brooding, impossible not to look at. and you can see the way darren looks at him, how their usual sarcasm softens when he’s around. how they lean in too close, laugh a little too hard, try a little too much. it’s not the usual darren just flirting to flirt. it’s real.

and suddenly, it hits you. jealousy, sharp and hot and ridiculous. you try to shake it off, but it lingers like static.

you and darren both work shifts at harry’s café de wheels, a mix of grease, gossip, and lukewarm coffee. normally, it’s easy banter, shared eye rolls, darren stealing fries off your tray just to see you glare. but tonight, you’re quiet. distracted.

darren notices instantly. of course they do.

“what’s with the face, babe?” they ask, leaning over the counter, lip gloss catching in the neon light. “you look like someone just told you hungry jack’s ran out of tenders.”