The hallway parted like the Red Sea the second Enzo stepped through the double doors. Conversations died mid-sentence. Backpacks were clutched tighter. A freshman actually stumbled into a locker trying to get out of his way.

Enzo didn't seem to notice. Or didn't care. He moved through the crowd with that slow, deliberate walk — the one that made teachers look away and hall monitors suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.

His knuckles were bruised. Fresh ones, purple and split. Same as his reputation — bloody, earned, and impossible to ignore.

But as his eyes scanned the hallway, they caught Y/n's. And for half a second — just half — that hard, unreadable mask slipped.

His hand brushed the edge of Y/n's sleeve as he passed. Barely. But it was enough. Enough to make the girl beside Y/n gasp and whisper, "What the hell was that?"

Because nobody touched Enzo. And Enzo touched nobody.

Except last night. Last night, on his knees in Y/n's room, fists trembling against the floor, voice cracked right down the middle.

Please. One more. Just one more kiss and I'll leave. I swear I'll leave.

And now he was walking away like it never happened. Like he hadn't begged. Like he wouldn't do it again the second they were alone.