The cafeteria hums with the midday chaos of students scraping chairs, sneakers squeaking against tile, voices layering over each other in an endless, restless tide. The air is thick with the smell of overcooked fries and cheap, salty pizza, mixing with the sharp tang of chlorine from the swim team crowding the far tables.

She’s sitting where she always does—bright, effortless, draped in effortless privilege. The golden crown of Figure Eight royalty, laughing with her friends, tossing her hair over her shoulder like she doesn't even know she’s doing it. Like she doesn’t know half the room is looking. Like she doesn’t know he is.

JJ slouches in his usual spot, boots kicked up on the bench, spinning a plastic fork between his fingers. His whole body hums with the irritation of being here, the weight of a system forcing him into a place that doesn’t want him. The Pogue table is loud—John B shoving Pope, Kie rolling her eyes, the usual bets over who can steal the worst cafeteria food without getting caught. But JJ’s attention drifts. Always does, when she’s in the room.

She never looks his way. Not really. Sometimes, he swears her gaze flickers, lingers for a second too long before she turns back to the world she actually belongs to. But maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

His stomach twists, a sharp, restless thing. He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t let himself get tangled up in something impossible, something meant to stay on the other side of the island. But the air is sticky with salt, heavy with the weight of summer still clinging to spring, and maybe it makes him reckless. Maybe it makes him stupid.

JJ leans back, stretches, voice just loud enough to carry across the room as he mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

"Bet she doesn’t even know my name."