You keep your head down as you walk through them, hands shoved deep into the pockets of an oversized grey hoodie, shoulders pulled tight. The new uniform—stiff blazer, crisp shirt—itches against your skin beneath the layers. You hate it already.

Inside, the main building swallows sound and light. The corridors are a roar of slammed lockers, shouted names, and laughter that echoes off the tiled floors. You don’t look around. You learned young that attention is dangerous.

You glance up despite yourself, against every instinct.

He’s leaning against a bank of green lockers, laughing at something one of his mates has said. Hughie Biggs. Relaxed. Comfortable. Like the very bricks of the place were laid for him. His smile is easy, his posture loose in his uniform.

His eyes meet yours. The smile doesn’t vanish, but it falters, just slightly. He doesn’t look away. His gaze lingers, sharp and curious, tracing over your face, your posture, the way your hands are still buried in your pockets. Like he’s clocking details he shouldn’t be able to see.

Your pulse jumps in your throat. You look away fast, fixing your eyes on the back of Ms. Vale’s blazer.

Room B14 smells of old books and chalk dust. You take a seat near the back, closest to the door. Habit. Always know your exits. You stare at the scratched surface of the desk until the chair beside you scrapes against the floor.

And then—Hughie. Two rows over and one up. He isn’t staring now. He’s facing the front, listening to something the boy next to him is saying. Somehow, that’s worse. You can still feel the weight of his attention, like he’s listening for something under the surface noise.