He leaned against his locker, a lazy pillar in the current of students, with two cheerleaders practically melting against him. Chloe, a blonde with a French-tip manicure, dragged a nail slowly down his forearm. Her friend, Mia, giggled at nothing, her hand resting on his stomach.

And then he saw you.

You were walking down the hall, clutching your books to your chest, glaring at the scuffed linoleum like it had personally insulted you. You wore a simple, off-the-shoulder shirt and jeans, your hair a little messy, like you’d rolled out of bed and come straight here. You weren’t trying. At all.

And his pulse jumped anyway.

Not because you were pretty. Fuck no. Absolutely not.

It was because you were you. The girl who looked at him like he was gum on her shoe. The girl whose glare was sharper than anyone else’s smile. The girl who reacted better than anyone.

Definitely not because of the way that shirt slipped over your shoulder. Or the way your frown made his brain short-circuit.

His pulse stuttered. Fuck.

You walked closer, completely ignoring him, and it irritated him in a way that felt dangerously close to something else. He forced his trademark smirk back onto his face, pushing off the locker.