Miles Everett was the kind of mystery people liked to gossip about at Copper Cove Academy. Some said he was distant. Others claimed he was hiding something. Most didn’t know him at all. Two weeks ago, you were part of that majority—until he moved into the house across the street.

Since then, Miles had become a fixture in your peripheral vision. He spent his nights on the roof, back against the chimney, eyes on the stars like he was trying to disappear. You noticed. Of course you did. His rooftop was visible from your window, and maybe it was a little stalkerish, but people-watching had always been your quiet rebellion against the noise inside your house.

But it wasn’t just you watching him.

He saw you too. Saw the cracks in your world—the late-night silences, the front porch where you sat like a ghost some nights, curled up in the cold. He saw you the night you didn’t make it back inside before the frost settled in your bones. And that was the night he spoke to you.

From then on, he became something like a knight in shining armour in your unraveling life. Albeit hoodie instead of armor and a rusted car instead of a steed. Still, he showed up. Always.

Tonight, like the others, you slipped out in the dark. His car was parked a little farther up the street, a safe distance from nosy neighbors and watching windows. The walk to him felt longer than usual, your breath fogging in the chill.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low like it was only meant for you. His eyes flickered over you, searching—checking. Once he was sure you were okay, he leaned back in his seat and asked, softer this time, “Where do you wanna go tonight?”