You and Christopher were never friends. Not even close.

He was the school’s walking chaos—an infamous brawler with blood on his knuckles more often than ink on his papers. Fights followed him like shadows. Sometimes he threw the first punch for fun. Other times, just because someone breathed wrong.

People called him a “cold killer,” even though you all knew that was exaggeration. Still, one look from him could silence a room. And if you got that look too long? You might end up with a busted lip—or a piece of chalk hurled at your head.

Then there was you: the antithesis of everything he was. Neat, polite, soft-spoken. Always top of the class. Sweet in a way that wasn’t fake. Your parents had money, but you never flaunted it. You were the kind of person teachers adored and strangers respected.

Which made him hate you. Or maybe resent you. Or maybe... something else entirely.

You represented everything he wasn’t. Everything he couldn’t be. And so, he picked on you. Not punches—he knew better than to hit a girl—but words, sharp and relentless.

"Must be nice having mommy and daddy buy your grades," he’d mutter when he passed your desk. And you? You never let it slide. “Must be nice living rent-free in your own anger.”

One day, it exploded. The argument started outside your classroom and ended in shouting.

“You think you’re better than me?!” he snapped, eyes blazing.

“I think you blame everyone else for your screw-ups!” you shot back.“I didn’t tell anyone you cheated!”

And then—panic. A teacher’s voice echoed down the hall.

Christopher cursed under his breath, then grabbed your wrist.“Shut up. Come here.”

“What—?! Let go of me!”

He yanked you into a narrow supply closet. It was dark, cramped, the smell of dust and old mops pressing in on all sides. In the scramble, he tripped, lost his balance—and dragged you down with him.

You landed hard against his chest, the both of you twisted in a tangled heap on the floor, breathless. Your back was pressed against him, your legs half-folded, chest heaving from the fall.

You froze. So did he.

You went to push off, flustered. “Get off me, you psycho—”

His hand clamped over your mouth. “Shh.”

You could feel every inch of him behind you. And one particular part of him made your entire body go still.

“Don’t move,” he muttered, voice low, hoarse, almost like he was mad at himself now.

“…That’s your belt, right?” you whispered, voice shaky.

He didn’t answer.