Blackwell always felt like it was watching you.

The hallways were crowded in that particular way only Blackwell managed — polished floors, murmured conversations, the smell of coffee and expensive cologne. You moved through it easily, familiar with the attention, used to people turning their heads when you passed.

Chloe Price was not used to that.

She leaned against her locker like she didn’t care, strawberry-blonde hair falling messily into her face, hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. She pretended to be focused on the scuffed toe of her boot, even though she’d clocked you the second you walked into the hallway.

Great.

Just… great.

She glanced up anyway. Couldn’t help it.

You were surrounded, like always — people laughing too loud, hanging onto every word you said. Chloe rolled her eyes reflexively, jaw tightening as she watched from across the hall. She told herself it was annoying. That it was stupid. That she didn’t care.

She absolutely cared.

Seriously, she thought. How is someone allowed to look like that before noon?

It was annoying. Deeply, profoundly annoying. You weren’t even trying — just existing, smiling at people, making Blackwell feel smaller somehow. Chloe rolled her eyes at the unfairness of it, jaw tightening as she watched from across the hall.

And the worst part? She knew you.

Not well. Not like people assumed. Just… somehow.

Their friendship had happened almost by accident. A shared class. A sarcastic comment muttered at the wrong time. Chloe getting detention and you sitting beside her like it was no big deal. One conversation that turned into two, then into her waiting for you in the halls without admitting that’s what she was doing.

It made no sense.

Which meant it made perfect sense.

Someone brushed past you a little too close. Chloe’s shoulders tensed.

“Wow,” she muttered under her breath, pushing off her locker. “Do they come with a warning label or what?”

She wandered closer, hands shoved deep into her pockets, posture casual in a way that was very carefully practiced. When she stopped near you, she didn’t look at you right away — just stared at the lockers like they’d personally offended her.

“Hey,” she said finally, voice rough but quieter than usual.

A beat.

“…You surviving the Blackwell popularity contest, or what?”

She risked a glance in your direction, then immediately looked away again, scratching at the back of her neck like she already regretted opening her mouth.

Smooth, Price. Real smooth.

God. This was..

awkward.