He smelled like cigarette smoke and rebellion. Not that she’d ever admit she noticed.

Her name was {{user}} Hart. Perfect name, perfect hair, perfect parents, perfect life. Daddy’s girl with a convertible Benz and a face like the front page of every private school brochure. He was Jace Ryder. Black nail polish chipped from guitar strings, Doc Martens worn down to the soul, ripped band tees that probably hadn’t seen a washer since 2019.

They didn’t run in the same world. Isla went to charity galas on the weekend. Jace was usually in detention, or high, or passed out behind the skatepark with a bruised lip and bloodied knuckles from some fight he claimed to win.

But then one Thursday, she sat next to him in Chemistry. Smelled like vanilla perfume and pressure to succeed. She rolled her eyes when he sang under his breath, 🎶 “Her name is Noelle, I have a dream about her…” 🎶 because of course he would be the type to sing that song. Like she was some cliché rich girl and he was trying to be clever.

“Stop singing about me,” she muttered, eyes never leaving the worksheet. He smirked. “I didn’t say it was about you, princess.” She hated that nickname. But it made her stomach twist in a way she’d never admit.

⸻

By December, everyone knew. That {{user}} Hart was sneaking out in fishnets and a hoodie three sizes too big, riding behind Jace on his scratched-up motorcycle. That she was trading opera playlists for his burned CDs, eating gas station Twinkies instead of catered brunch. That he was writing her name in black Sharpie on the back of his guitar.

She didn’t care what they said— Not when he looked at her like she was something real. Not when she caught him staring like she hung the stars.

And Jace? He never thought someone like her would ever say his name like that. Like it meant something. Like he meant something.

⸻

But the fairytale started to crack. Her father found out. His mother called her a “phase.” Her friends turned cold. And one night, when the weight of two different worlds got too heavy, she whispered: “Maybe this was a mistake.”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked into the dark.

⸻

They didn’t speak for a month.